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A    SAILOR'S    HOME 

AND   OTHER   STORIES 

RICHARD      DEHAN 


A  SAILOR'S   HOME 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

By  RICHARD  DEHAN 

Author  of 
"A  Gilded  Vanity,"  "The  Dop  Doctor,"  etc. 


NEW  ^tSir  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


FACE 

I.    GEORGE:     A  VICTIM  OF  HEREDITY 9 

II.  A  DESIGN  FOR  A  POSTER:    A  HOLIDAY  FARCE      .      .  20 

III.  A  STRATEGIC  MOVEMENT 29 

IV.  A  RELIEF  EXPEDITION 45 

V.    A  SAILOR'S  HOME 63 

VI.  As  PLAIN  AS  PRINT  :    A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  BASEMENT  108 

VII.  THE  OLDEST  INHABITANT:     A  STORY  FOR  GIRLS      .  117 

VIII.    BEAUTY  WHILE  You  WAIT 184 

IX.    THE  YOUNG  MAN  FROM  MAWLEY'S 191 

X.    BLEACH 199 

XL    BONES! 206 

XII.    THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  HIMSELF 211 

XIII.  THE  RECTOR'S  DUTY 314 

XIV.  THE  FROZEN  TRUTH 351 

XV.    THE  CHECKMATING  OF  MR.  BROWN 357 

XVI.  THE  MOTOR  'Bus  BEANO    .  364 


2135821 


A  SAILOR'S  HOME 


I 
GEORGE 

A  VICTIM  OF  HEREDITY 

IT  was  the  end  of  June,  green,  damp  and  steamy.  And 
the  meteorological  conditions  having  favoured  an  out- 
break of  garden  snails,  Miss  Pelleby,  of  Laurel  Cottage, 
a  dwelling  long  regarded  as  the  stateliest  in  Rippleford 
village  in  its  possession  of  a  double  front  gate  and  a  small 
but  tortuous  gravel  drive,  became  painfully  awake  to  the 
necessity  of  a  general  extermination  of  these  gasteropods. 

"Otherwise,"  she  observed  to  her  mild,  middle-aged 
reflection  in  the  looking-glass,  as  she  tied  her  bonnet, 
"there  will  be  no  green  peas." 

"Nor  broad  beans!"  shrieked  Sarah,  her  one  maid, 
whose  dazzlingly  clean  kitchen  was  only  separated  by  a 
row  of  whitewashed  joists,  a  plank  flooring,  and  a  bed- 
room carpet  from  the  sleeping-bower  of  Miss  Pelleby 
above.  "An*  they've  kidded  so  beautifully  this  year  too." 

"How  often  must  I  tell  you,  Sarah,"  returned  Miss 
Pelleby  rebukingly,  "that  I  object  to  your  use  of  that  very 
vulgar  term?  Beans  grow,  develop,  or  sprout — they  do 

not  kid" 

9 


io  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Kid  be  George  Comfort's  word,"  said  the  defiant 
voice  of  the  invisible  handmaid.  "And  George  do  know 
more  about  beans — and  peas,  too — than  any  other  man 
in  Ripple  ford." 

"Then  I  wish  George  had  kept  out  of  jail,  that  I  do !" 
said  Miss  Pelleby  to  the  Miss  Pelleby  in  the  glass ;  "for 
who  I'm  to  get  in  his  place  before  every  green  leaf  is 
eaten  up  by  those  snails,  I  don't  know." 

"If  ye  do  please,  Miss  Hetty,"  said  the  voice  under 
Miss  Pelleby's  neat  prunella  walking  shoes,  "the  baker's 
boy  have  just  tell  me  he  have  a-heerd  in  the  village  as 
George  be  back  again." 

"That's  impossible,"  retorted  Miss  Pelleby,  "consider- 
ing that  only  yesterday  he  was  brought  up  before  the 
magistrate  at  Readstone  Petty  Sessions  for  stealing 
fowls,  sentenced  to  three  weeks'  imprisonment  under  the 
Summary  Something-or-other  Act,  and  is  now  lying 
chained  and  fettered  in  a  felon's  cell,  which  he  might 
have  known  would  be  the  case,  poor  fellow!  when  he 
went  and  stole  old  Mr.  Dewey's  four  speckled  Ham- 
burghs.  I  wish  he  had  stolen  mine,  I'm  sure !  Knowing 
it  to  be  the  latter  end  of  the  week,  and  a  case  of  inherited 
family  failing,  I  should  have  made  allowances!  But  as 
to  his  being  back  in  Rippleford,  that's  all  a  story;  and 
I  only  wish,  for  the  sake  of  the  garden,  it  was  true." 

"If  ye  do  please,  Miss  Hetty,"  said  the  unseen  but 
persistent  handmaid,  "I  can  see  the  top  o'  George's  cot- 
tage from  the  end  kitchen  winder,  and  there's  smoke 
coming  out  o'  the  chimney  now." 

The  dwelling  inhabited  by  the  peccant  George  was 
scarcely  to  be  dignified  as  a  cottage.  It  stood  in  the 
middle  of  a  small  but  well-kept  fruit  and  vegetable  gar- 
den, and  was  generally,  during  the  less  rheumatic  months 
of  the  year,  undergoing  the  process  of  being  painted  by  a 
lady  artist,  whose  umbrella,  camp-stool,  and  easel,  with 
its  canvas  or  sketching-block,  offered  an  invariable  testi- 


George  1 1 

mony  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  place.  It  is  generally 
understood  that  to  be  picturesque  is  to  be  crumbly. 
George's  dwelling  was  so  picturesque  that  if  the  ivy 
which  clothed  its  ancient  walls  and  flourished  on  its  un- 
even roof  of  mossy  tiles  had  been  stripped  off  it  would 
certainly  have  subsided  into  a  heap.  It  consisted  of  one 
apartment  with  a  sleeping  loft  above,  into  which,  since 
the  flooring  joists  gave  way  some  fourteen  years  pre- 
viously, George  had  only  ventured  once — then  being  in 
liquor.  Thus  the  shilling  a  week  paid  by  the  tenant  for 
rent  included  all  sorts  of  exciting  possibilities,  less  valued 
by  George  than  by  the  neighbours,  who  openly  laid 
wagers,  in  gusty  weather,  upon  the  hour  and  moment  of 
the  inevitable  collapse. 

Contrary  to  the  conviction  of  Miss  Pelleby,  the  chim- 
ney smoke  had  borne  true  testimony  to  Sarah's  experi- 
enced eye. 

George  was  at  home.  He  sat  smilingly  by  the  fire  in 
the  folding  chair-bedstead  in  which  he  had  slept  for  four- 
teen years.  The  Vicar's  lady,  who  gave  the  chair,  had 
never  thought  of  explaining  the  simple  mechanical  proc- 
ess by  which  it  could  be  converted  into  a  bedstead,  and 
George  had  never  tried  to  find  it  out.  Later  on,  when  it 
was  explained  George  declined  to  profit  by  his  knowledge. 

"Durin'  the  early  part  o'  th'  wick,  I  be  tew  tired  to 
tackle  th'  dang'd  machine,"  he  had  explained.  "An* 
durin'  th'  latter  part  o'  the  wick  I  be  tew  drunk." 

George  smiled  when  he  said  this,  as  he  smiled  now 
sitting  by  the  crackling  wood  fire  of  laths  from  the  loft 
flooring,  upon  which  a  kettle  boiled — not  for  tea.  He 
was  a  sandy-grey,  shrivelled-apple-faced  man  of  fifty,  in- 
variably attired  in  heavy  highlows,  earth-stained  mole- 
skin trousers,  strapped  at  the  knee,  a  patched  checked 
shirt,  prehistoric  shooting-jacket  of  fitful  check  pattern, 
and  an  aged  brown  bowler  shining  with  grease.  . 

Smiling  was  a  habit  with  George;  and  if  it  had  not 


12  A  Sailor's  Home 

been,  the  consciousness  of  being  at  large  when,  according 
to  the  sentence  of  two  Justices  of  the  Peace,  he  should 
have  been  languishing  in  a  prison  cell  and  pleasingly 
drunk  instead  of  penitentially  sober  would  have  kept  his 
features  upon  the  stretch  and  lighted  up  a  twinkle  in  his 
small  blue  eyes. 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door,  a  gentle  tap.  George 
got  up  to  open  it,  firm  in  the  belief  that  another  lady  artist 
had  come  to  sketch  the  place.  But  the  knocker  was  his 
weekly  employer,  Miss  Pelleby. 

"George  Comfort!"  the  lady  gasped  when  George 
appeared  smiling  in  the  doorway.  "Can  it  possibly  be 
you?" 

"The  same,  I  reckins,  Miss  'Etty,"  said  George,  with- 
out aggressive  certainty,  rubbing  his  earth-stained  hand 
over  his  chin,  bristly  with  nearly  four  days'  growth  of 
beard. 

"I  was  told  it,  but  I  couldn't  believe  it,  and  so  I  came 
round  to  find  out  for  myself  whether  it  was  true,"  de- 
clared Miss  Pelleby.  "And  now  I  see  you  I  don't  know 
how  to  credit  my  own  eyes.  Why  it  was  only  on  Mon- 
day that  the  whole  village  saw  you  led  away  in  custody 
by  Pinching,  the  constable,  for  stealing  Mr.  Dewey's 
speckled  Hamburghs.  Cobber,  Pmching's  deputy,  was 
carrying  the  murdered  fowls  in  a  sack ;  and  when  I  saw 
the  spectacle  I  blushed  with  shame  to  think  what  drink 
had  brought  you  to." 

"Did  ye  now,  Miss  *Etty?"  said  George,  with  an  in- 
terested air.  "But  I  wasn't  drunk  o'  Monday,"  he  added 
simply,  "it  bein*  th'  upper  end  a'  th'  wick,  when  mother 
gits  her  way  wi'  me,  ye  knows." 

"I  thought  of  her  when  I  saw  you  led  away,"  con- 
tinued Miss  Pelleby,  "and  I  said  that  if  the  good  old 
hard-working  soul  had  been  alive  to  see  you  so  dis- 
graced she'd  never  have  held  up  her  honest  head  again." 

"But  feyther  'ud  ha'  winked  his  eye,  feyther  would," 


George  13 

declared  George.  "  "Theer's  a  chip  o'  th'  owd  block/ 
feyther  'd  ha'  said,  'by  all  the  Laws  o'  Reddity.' " 

Miss  Pelleby  stamped  her  prunella  shoe  upon  the  crazy 
floor. 

"Heredity,  heredity !"  she  repeated  indignantly.  "The 
silly  excuse  made  nowadays  by  a  pack  of  good-for-noth- 
ing people  who  hold  that  it's  no  use  to  strive  against 
their  own  faults  and  vices,  because  their  ancestors  had 
them  before  them!" 

"Miss  'Etty,"  asserted  George  doggedly,  "I  be  a  vic- 
tim o'  reddity.  After  I'd  heerd  that  Temperance  lecturer 
chap  wi'  the  red  nose  talk  on  th'  platform  at  Rippleford 
Recreation  Rooms,  I  made  no  more  manner  of  doubt 
about  me.  Ay,  th'  whole  dismal  history  were  as  clear  as 
pump  water.  'Here  you,  George  Comfort,  stand,'  says 
I  to  myself,  'only  son  and  offsprout  of  a  staid  sober 
mother  an*  a  do-nothin',  poachin'  rampallion  of  a  feyther 
what  were  always  i'  liquor.  Accordin'  to  the  Laws  o' 
Reddity — you  be  bound  to  take  arter  both  your  aunt's 
sisters " 

"Ancestors,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  the  indignant 
Miss  Pelleby. 

"I  said  aunt's  sisters,"  asserted  George.  "Why,  Miss 
'Etty,  I  could  fill  a  penny  newspaper  wi'  the  tale  o'  my 
endurings  as  an  orphan  lad  betwixt  twenty-five  and 
thirty.  What  wi'  mother  faining  to  kip  me  from  drinkin' 
away  my  wage  at  th'  Red  Cow,  and  feyther  fetching  of 
me  in  whenever  I  passed  th'  door,  'twas  a  case  o'  pull 
baker,  pull  devil.  ..." 

"George!"  screamed  Miss  Pelleby  warningly. 
"George!" 

"I  said  so  before  th'  Justices  on  th'  Bench  at  Read- 
stone  yesterday,"  asseverated  the  victim  of  hereditary 
tendencies.  "Ay,  I  towd  'em  how  no  sooner  had  I  got  me 
into  th'  tap  wi'  my  pot  of  ale  before  me,  but  mother  'ud 
have  me  out  agin  wi'  no  more  than  the  froth  upo'  my  lips. 


14  A  Sailor's  Home 

An'  I  towd  'em  how  I'd  git  me  whoam  an'  sit  me  down  to 
a  basin  o'  tea  or  sich-like  slops,  an'  how  feyther  'ud  come 
over  me  to  such  an  extent  as  I'd  furiously  pitch  th'  stuff 
back  o'  chimbley.  Then  I  goes  on  an'  tells  'em  how  I 
hit  on  th'  notion  o'  halvin'  th'  wick  betwixt  th'  owd 
woman  an'  th'  owd  man,  an'  how  ever  sin*  they've  bided  » 
as  peaceable  as  heart  could  wish." 

"You  don't  mean  that  Squire  Hardwick  and  Colonel 
Rogerson  had  the  patience  to  listen  to  all  that  nonsense  ?" 
screamed  Miss  Pelleby. 

"But  I  does,"  said  George,  passing  his  scandalised 
employer  the  one  Windsor  chair  the  cottage  boasted. 
"Ay,  an'  they  larfed  fit  to  kill  theirselves,  wi'  purple 
faces  an'  streamin'  tears.  An'  Inspector  Burridge  he 
laughed,  an'  the  Clerk  o'  the  Court  an'  Constable  Pinch- 
ing, an'  Deppity  Cobber,  an'  th'  Readstone  police  they 
laughed,  an'  the  folks  i'  Court  till  th'  Colonel  he  threat- 
ened to  clear.  An'  they  questions  me  how  I  divides  th' 
wick  betwixt  mother  and  feyther.  An'  when  I  tells  'em 
as  how  I  be  a  virtuous  totaller  from  Sunday  marnin'  at 
Church  time  up  to  Wensday  night,  an'  a  'bandoned 
drunkard  from  Wensday  night  up  to  Sunday  marnin'  at 
Church  time,  I  thowt  as  they'd  ha'  burst.  He,  he,  he !" 

George  smiled  from  ear  to  ear. 

"And  more  shame  for  them !"  asserted  the  scandalised 
Miss  Pelleby. 

"Then  they  gits  askin'  for  evidence  o'  the  theft,  and 
Pinching  tells  his  story  as  how  he  dropped  in  at  my  little 
place  o'  Saturday  night  an'  finds  me  i'  th'  arm-chair  be- 
fore th'  fire,  as  drunk  as  David's  sow — he,  he !"  continued 
George.  "An'  Deppity  Constable  Cobber  swears  to  every- 
thing Pinching  says,  as  Pinching  told  him  were  his  duty 
a-coming  along  th'  road.  Not  that  they  set  words  i' 
my  mouth,  poor  dogs !  'em  were  honest  enough,  seemin'ly. 
But  having  had  my  dram,  and  Saturday  bein'  feyther's 
end  o'  th'  wick  my  tongue  were  nimble  if  my  legs  were 


George  15 

dead  drunk,  and  some  saucy  things  I  mun'  ha'  said  to  'em, 
sure  enough — he,  he,  he ! — judgin'  by  the  way  th'  men 
hawhawed  and  th'  women  tittered.  While  as  for  Squire 
and  Colonel,  they  nigh  rolled  off  th'  Bench." 

"Shameful!"  cried  Miss  Pelleby.     "Shameful!" 

"Seemin'ly,"  said  George,  in  a  tone  of  retrospect,  "I'd 
hid  them  hins  i'  th'  loft.  This  bein'  Thrisday  an'  feyther's 
half  o'  th'  wick,  I  be  a-glorying  i'  th'  wickedness,  though 
it  scranned  me  o'  Sunday,  Monday,  Tewsday,  an'  Wens- 
day,  to  reflect  upon  th'  sin.  Pinching  said  I  were  bowd 
as  brass,  tellin'  him  to  go  up  an'  look,  which  no  bowsy 
fat  man  wi'  a  wife  an'  family  durst  dare,  an'  Deppity 
Cobber  be  nigh  so  bowsy  as  he.  Seemin'ly  they'd  got 
their  witses  about  'em  more  than  mid  ha'  bin  bethought, 
for  they  hired  a  light  boy  .  .  .  Ay,  I'd  gone  off  i'  my 
drowse  agin,  when  down  he  came !  .  .  .  Solon  Stubberd, 
a  pore  child,  wi'  his  two  arms  full  o'  lathwood  an*  plas- 
ter just  where  you  can  see  the  big  new  hole  above — an' 
they  speckilt  Hambugs  o'  Master  Dewey's  came  wi'  him 
.  .  .  Constable  Pinching  got  his  back  bruised  wi'  one,  but 
Deppity  Cobber  were  th'  worst  off,  poor  dog!  For — 
he,  he ! — he  were  a-looking  up  at  th'  very  time  when 
young  Solon  Stubberd  failed  down  on  th'  man's  very 
nose.  .  .  .  Not  as  Deppity  Cobber  ever  had  any  nose 
worth  speakin'  about,  but  ye  mid  put  your  specs  on  now, 
Miss  'Etty — he,  he ! — to  tell  it  from  a  roasted  apple,  an' 
that  a  squashy  one — he,  he,  haw!" 

George  slapped  his  leg  in  ecstasy.  Miss  Pelleby 
frowned. 

"And  after  all  this,"  she  said  in  severe  and  solemn 
tones,  "you  are  dismissed  with  a  mere  caution  from  the 
Bench."  She  remembered  the  rampant  snails,  battening 
unrebuked  upon  the  strawberry-vines,  lettuces,  and  young 
peas  in  Laurel  Cottage  garden,  and  her  tone  grew  softer 
in  spite  of  herself.  "It  is  true  you  passed  three  days 
in  custody  of  Readstone,"  she  added,  "and  possibly 


1 6  A  Sailor's  Home 


Squire    Hardwick    and    Colonel    Rogerson    considered 
that." 

"Them  asked  me  how  I  got  on  i'  the  lock-up  "  said 
George.  "An*  I  tole  'em  not  so  well  by  'arf,  but  what 
I  mid  ha'  fared  better.  'For  to  be  mewed  up  betwixt 
stone  walls  is  for  gentry,  an'  likewise  to  ha'  your  victuals 
carried  ye  i'  bright  platters,'  says  I.  'An'  I  be  content 
wi'  my  lowliness,  I  be.'  Then  says  th'  Colonel.  'If  ye 
were  agin  a  change,  an'  wishful  t'  bide  as  ye  were,  why 
steal  Dewey's  fowl?'  Then  I  ups  an'  says — (Dewey  beln' 
there  i'  th'  witnesses'  pew  i'  Readstone  Petty  Session 
House) — as  how  they  fowl  had  tooked  my  little  place  for 
a  hin-house,  an'  I  hadn'  the  heart  to  say  'em  nay.  Then 
Squire  Hardwick — Squire  be  a  weazen,  spite ful-lookin', 
gingery  little  body,  dressed  no  better  than  my  scarecrow 
I  ha'  sit  over  they  young  'taties  i'  th'  gardin — Squire 
Hardwick  he  says :  "Three  wicks  in  Culwich  Penitentiary 
less  th'  three  days  this  man  hev'  already  spint  i'  custody. 
Constable  Gossle — Bain't  your  name  Gossle,  you  new 
officer  over  from  Dorton  Ware? — Constable  Gossle  will 
take  ye  over  by  train  when  he's  had  his  dinner.  An'  I 
hope  th'  change  of  air  will  do  ye  good.' " 

"Then  how  does  it  happen  that  you  are  at  home  now, 
and  not  at  Culwich  Penitentiary?"  demanded  Miss  Pelle- 
by. 

"Doan't  ye  be  i'  such  a  hurry  Miss  'Etty,"  said  George 
rebukingly.  "Dang  me!  but  when  the  Squire  came  out 
wi'  they  three  wicks,  arter  seemin'ly  bein'  so  free  an' 
easy,  my  legs  were  all  of  a  shake.  'Twas  thunder  and 
lightning  out  of  a  clear  sky,  as  ye  mid  say.  Th'  next  as 
iver  I  did  know — Constable  Gossle,  th'  new  officer  from 
over  Dorton  Ware — Constable  Gossle  he  'ad  my  by  th' 
elbow,  frisking  me  up  Readstone  Main  Street  like  a  holi- 
day feller  wi'  his  sweet'art  bound  for  the  fair.  Ay,  an' 
a  long-legged,  lean-chopped  scrannel  man  is  Gossle,  for 
all  the  nourishin'  fodder  he  do  put  away.  .  .  .  For  ye 


George  i^ 

see,  bavin'  bin  told  by  th'  Justices  to  get  his  dinner,  he 
took  me  home  wi'  him  fust.  Now,  Miss  'Etty,  what  do 
ye  think  that  man  had  waiting  hot  for  him  i'  th'  oven? 
The  tenderest  o'  Dewey's  speckilt  Hambugs — he  he !  I 
did  take  notice  they  on'y  brought  one  o'  they  fowl  up  i' 
th'  Court  as  witness  to  my  crime,  an'  that  were  th'  tough- 
est of  them  all.  So  Constable  Pinching  an'  Deppity  Cob- 
ber mun  ha'  bed  their  share,  an'  if  th'  meat  chawed  as 
sav'ry  as  the  plateful  Mrs.  Gossle  set  before  me,  wi' 
vegetables  an'  pudden,  I  du  reckon  they  enj'yed  their- 
selves  over  a  bit." 

"Could  you  eat  it?"  gasped  Miss  Pelleby,  with  visions 
of  speedy  judgment  upon  gastronomical  sinners  rising 
before  her  mental  eye. 

"Could  I  eat  it,  Miss  .'Etty?"  repeated  George,  with 
so  many  rows  of  surprised  lines  forming  on  his  weather- 
beaten  forehead  that  Miss  Hetty  forebore.  "Ay,  I 
swallered  as  much  as  I  could  git ;  for  if  so  be  as  I  had  to 
canker  i'  jail  for  three  wicks  on  account  o'  stealin'  they 
fowl  o'  Dewey's,  'twas  only  right  I  should  git  one  bit  o' 
'joyment  beforehand.  And  danged  if  Gossle  didn't  stand 
me  a  quart  of  beer !  He  be  a  heavy  drinker  wi'  his  meals, 
an'  a  terrible  eater,  an'  when  he'd  gotten  me  i'  the  second- 
class  railway  carritch,  speedin'  over  to  Culwich  terminus 
what  do  the  man  do  but  fall  as  fast  asleep  as  Eutychus. 
He  were  that  sound  when  th'  train  steamed  into  tb'  sta- 
tion that,  do  what  I  could,  theer  wer'  no  wakin'  of  him. 
I  joggles  him  wi'  my  elbow,  an'  I  treads  upo'  his  corns, 
an'  'Wake  up !'  I  says,  'an'  take  me  to  prison.  I  be  too 
shy  to  go  there  wi'out  ye.'  But  Gossle  did  nought  but 
snore  an'  grunt  like  a  penful  o'  hogs.  When  I'd  got  me 
safe  hid  under  th'  carritch  seat  he  grunted  still,  an'  who 
d'ye  think  popped  his  head  in  at  th'  carritch  door  ?  Why, 
Squire  Justice  Hardwick  hisseln,  as  had  been  i'  th'  train 
all  along."  George  smiled  from  ear  to  ear.  "Ay,  though 
I  lay  too  low  to  see  his  vinegar  face,  I  heerd  his  raspy 


1 8  A  Sailor's  Home 

voice,  an'  I  knowed  they  bow  legs  o'  his'n.  They  wer' 
nigh  enough  to  ha'  bitten  i'  th'  calves  if  so  be  I'd  wanted 
to  spile  th'  flavour  o'  my  dinner." 

"Mercy  upon  us !"  cried  Miss  Pelleby. 

George  continued: 

"  'Wake  up,  my  man,'  says  Squire  Hardwick  to  Con- 
stable Gossle.  'Where's  your  sense  o'  duty?  an',  by 
Gad!  where's  your  prisoner?'  He  shook  Gossle  to  that 
extent  I  heerd  his  teeth  rattle,  an'  what  he  did  to  the 
pore  Christian  next  must  ha'  bin  done  wi'  a  pin,  for 
Gossle  woked  up  wi'  a  bellow  like  a  mad  bull.  Next 
minute,  Miss  'Etty,  him  an'  th'  Squire  were  rolling  over 
an'  over  i'  the  bottom  o'  th'  carritch,  pummellin'  one  an- 
other like  Abel  and  Cain." 

George  stopped  to  wipe  his  face.  Miss  Pelleby  could 
only  gasp* 

"Did  they Was  there  any  bloodshed?" 

"Why,  Squire  lost  half  a  whisker  an'  got  a  nasty  scratt 
o'  th'  cheek,  and  Gossle  had  his  handkerchief  to  his  nose 
when  the  guard  o'  the  London  Express  helped  him  to  put 
th'  handcuffs  on  Squire,"  began  George — when  the  lady 
stopped  him  with  a  scream. 

"He  handcuffed  Squire  Hardwick?" 

"Ay,"  nodded  George  "an'  dang  me  if  he  didn't  do 
it  because  he  thowt  Squire  wer'  th'  prisoner!  You  do 
know,  Miss  'Etty,  how  folks  wakes  up  wi'  a  notion  i'  their 
heads  stuck  like  a  tick  in  a  sheep,  no  gettin'  of  it  out. 
Well,  Gossle  had  bin  dreamin'  he'd  never  went  to  sleep 
at  all,  and  wakin'  up  in  th'  midst  o'  the  towzle  with  a  fel- 
low Christian,  danged  if  he  didn't  believe  it  were  the 
prisoner  trying  to  escape.  .  .  .  He,  he !  For  all  Squire 
Hardwick  swore — and  I  niver  heerd  more  wanton  oath- 
ing  i'  my  days — Gossle  stuck  to  the  tale  that  he  were  me, 
an'  when  two  other  constables  came  runnin'  up,  neither 
of  'em  knowin'  Squire,  and  both  of  'em  knowin'  Gossle, 
they  took  Squire  (poor  dog!  I  niver  see  such  a  object 


George  19 

for  dust  i'  my  born  days)  off  to  Culwich  Penitentiary 
.  .  .  an'  wi'  a  bad  character  too,  for  faulting  an'  bat- 
tering th'  police  i'  th'  execution  o'  their  dooty.  While  I 
came  home  by  rail,  as  pleasant  as  ye  please." 

"And  what  do  you  think  will  happen?"  cried  the  hor- 
rified Miss  Pelleby,  springing  to  her  feet. 

"They'll  wash  th'  Squire,"  cried  George,  with  a  beam- 
ing face  of  smiles,  "and  lock  him  up  for  th'  night  i'  one 
o'  they  clean  comfortable  cells  he  bragged  about  from 
the  Bench  at  Readstone,  wi'  a  sup  o'  gruel  i'  a  clean  tin 
can  an'  a  bit  o'  brown  bread  as  big  as  a  quarter  pound  o' 
washin*  soap,  to  kip  him  i'  stomach — an'  i'  the  marnin* 
he'll  know  more  about  his  bis'niss  as  a  Justice  o'  th' 
Peace  than  he  iver  knowed  before!" 

"But  yourself.  .  .  .  You  unfortunate  man,  what  will 
become  of  you  when  the  truth  is  discovered  ?"  Miss  Pelle- 
by moaned. 

"Theer's  no  .law  i'  England,"  said  George  solemnly,  "to 
force  a  man  to  clap  hisself  i'  prison.  Why,  if  I'd  gone  by 
myself  an'  knocked  at  Culwich  Penitentiary  door,  I'd  ha' 
bin  sent  about  my  bis'niss  for  a  liar.  An*  if  I'd  begged 
Gossle  o'  my  knees  to  take  me  th'  man  'd  ha*  denied  me 
to  my  face,  hevin'  set  his  heart  like  on  th'  Squire !  He, 
he !  No,  Miss  'Etty,  I  was  i'  th'  right  to  git  me  back  to 
my  own  little  place.  I  doan't  sleep  well  out  o'  th'  chair 
by  the  fire;  they  prison  beds  is  too  soft  for  me.  .  .  . 
An'  this  bein'  feyther's  end  o'  th'  wick  ..."  the  aged 
victim  of  heredity  ended  piously,  "please  th'  pigs !  I  shall 
git  wonderful  drunk  when  you've  gone  home.  Ay,  an'  i' 
th'  marnin',  if  I  be  spared,  I'll  look  over  an'  lime  they 
snails  for  ye." 


II 

A  DESIGN  FOR  A  POSTER 

A  HOLIDAY  FARCE 

*  T  WONDER,"  says  she,  in  a  musical,  pleasant  voice, 

A  to  my  son-in-law  'Orris  Touchitt — 'im  that  wer- 
ritted  my  poor  girl  Eliza  into  her  grave  along  o'  coddlin' 
his  complaints  wot  'e  hadn't  got,  an'  makin'  her  gettin* 
up  shirts  for  'im  an'  puttin'  a  proper  London  cut  into  'is 
coats,  an'  weskits  an'  trowsies,  her  bein'  a  tailoress  by 
trade — Little  Week-End  wantin'  all  its  men  for  the  fish- 
ing-boats in  the  season,  you'll  find  a  good  many  women 
doin'  men's  work  all  the  year  round — "I  wonder  whether 
you'd  sit  for  me  to  sketch  you?" 

'Orris,  he  looked  as  pleased  as  a  dog  wi'  two  tails.  I 
were  tinkerin'  away  at  a  leak  in  the  hull  o'  my  boat, 
Skylark,  what  I'd  got  on  the  straddles  for  repairs.  Peeps 
over  'er  bows,  I  does,  me  being  aboard,  and  overhauled 
the  young  lady  artis'  what  was  a-speaking. 

Pretty?  As  paint,  in  a  red  Tommy  Chanter  'at  with 
a  light  striped  blowze  and  a  skirt  o'  navy  serge.  A  kink 
in  the  corner  of  'er  mouth — a  nice  red,  small  one — that 
meant  mischief,  an'  such  a  sensible  sort  o'  manner — for 
a  young  woman — that  I  couldn't  believe  she  saw  any- 
think  in  such  a  chap  as  'Orris. 

Well,  she'd  ast  'im  to  sit  and  'e  said  'e  would,  and  be- 
fore she  could  stop  'im  'e  was  off  to  fetch  one  o'  pore 
Eliza's  Windsor  arm-chairs  out  of  the  cottage,  which 

20 


A  Design  for  a  Poster  21 

were  close  by,  being,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  on  the 
foreshore,  an'  generally  washed  out  by  'igh  spring  tides. 
So  I  leans  over  the  bul'arks  and  I  says,  lookin'  down  on 
the  crown  o'  the  red  Tommy  Chanter : 

"You  better  be  keerful  wi'  'Orris,  miss.  He's  a  wid- 
ower on  the  look-out  for  another." 

She  give  a  jump,  an'  she  an'  her  friend,  another  young 
lady  twice  'er  age  an'  'arf  'er  looks,  bursts  out  larfin'. 
An'  up  comes  'Orris  gaspin' — it  bein'  'ot  weather  and  him 
one  o'  the  flabby  kind  not  lookin'  at  'is  best  by  no  means. 

"Where  would  you  like  me  to  sit,  miss?"  he  asks, 
smiling  all  over  his  face  as  I  just  'ad  time  to  see  before  I 
bobbed  down  out  of  sight. 

"Oh,"  says  she,  with  a  look  at  the  other  young  lady 
what  wasn't  'arf  so  young,  for  I'd  found  a  peep-'ole  in 
the  old  cutter's  hull,  and  'ad  my  eye  on  'Orris.  "I 
thought  at  first  I  would  have  preferred  you  to  sit  stand- 
ing, but  you  can  sit  to  me  seated  if  you  wish  it." 

'Orris  smiles  at  'er,  and  I  could  see  by  his  Sunday 
necktie  what  he'd  got  on,  with  a  collar  over  'is  guernsey, 
as  'e'd  made  up  'is  mind  for  fascination.  An'  if  you 
think  'Orris  was  anything  'andsome  to  look  at,  you're 
mistaken.  A  nose  o'  no  partic'lar  shape  on  a  face  like 
a  underdone  bun  with  two  burned  raisins  in  it  for  eyes, 
and  he  had  'air  like  a  little  gal's  Sambo  doll  and  arms 
and  legs  like  nothin*  on  earth,  and  a  fat,  flabby  body. 
Eliza  'ad  pretended  to  admire  'im,  but  I  knowed  better. 
"Father,"  she'd  say,  "  'e  loves  me  true,  I  do  believe," 
an'  if  I  let  on  as  wot  'Orris  wasn't  'andsome,  'e'd  take 
an'  'ang  'isself  in  despair. 

'Ere  she  was,  buried  only  two  months,  an*  'Orris  'angin' 
at  the  apron  strings  of  'arf  the  young  women  in  the  place, 
and  he'd  'ad  one  already  when  'e  married  Eliza.  "I  shall 
look  out  before  I  make  my  second  choice,"  'e  'as  the  cheek 
to  say  to  me.  "And  I  shall  go  in  for  good  looks  next 
time  bein'  a  man  naturally  fond  of  beauty." 


22  A  Sailor's  Home 

"I  shouldn't  look  in  the  glass  much,  then,  if  I  was  you," 
says  I,  with  the  blood  'ummin'  in  my  'ead  quite  aperplectic 
at  'is  silly  way  o'  goin'  on.  "You'll  upset  yourself  and 
spoil  your  appetite,  besides  breakin'  the  glass,  one  of  these 
days  when  you  smile  too  unguarded." 

Missis  Green,  a  elderly  widow  herself,  as  'ad  come  in  to 
do  up  the  'ouse  for  'Orris,  threw  up  'er  'ands  and  eyes  at 
that.  "  'Owever  can  you,  Mr.  Waylett  ?"  she  says  in  a 
faint,  'orrified  voice,  "knowin'  wot  your  pore  daughter 
what's  gone  thought  of  'er  'usband's  smile." 

"That's  just  wot  I  do  know,"  I  says  to  that  old  shark 
as  was  ready  to  swaller  up  'Orris,  ugly  as  'e  was,  along  o' 
pore  Eliza's  little  cottage  wot  she'd  bought  with  the 
furniture  in  it  out  of  'er  savin's  as  cook  for  ten  year  to  a 
hold  gentleman  in  London,  and  a  bit  o'  money  put  away 
in  the  Friendly  Provident  Bank.  "Wot  she  said  to 
'Orris  being  only  for  peace  an'  quiet,  and  'er  real  'art  bein' 
spoke  out  to  'er  hold  father.  'Wot,'  says  she  to  me  over 
an'  over  agin,  'do  'is  looks  matter  as  long  as  a  man's 
'art  is  in  the  right  place?'  Now,"  I  says  to  Missis  Green, 
"not  being  a  doctor,  I  can't  be  sure  no  more  than  Eliza 
were  about  where  the  right  place  lays.  But  I  don't 
think  much  of  the  'art  that's  in  it.  It's  the  kind  as  do  a 
lot  o'  beatin'  on  its  own  account  an'  very  little  on  the 
account  of  others.  As  my  pore  gal  found  when  laying 
speechless  on  'er  dying  bed,  and  'Orris  naggin'  perpetooal 
to  tell  'im  where  she'd  'id  'er  bank-book.  At  that  'e 
gets  'is  narsty  back  up  an'  tells  me  the  'ouse  is  'is,  as  well 
as  the  bank-book  an'  'e'll  trouble  me  to  walk  out,  which 
I  did,  takin'  care  to  let  it  be  known  in  the  'Pure  Pint' 
public-'ouse  'ow  my  son-in-law  'as  bin  and  be'ayved  to 
me." 

There  you  'ave  'Orris.  Now  the  young  lady  artis  'ad 
asked  'im  to  let  'er  do  'is  likeness  'e  was  firm  sure  that  a 
real  young  lady,  an'  a  pretty  one,  too,  'ad  fell  in  love  with 
him  at  last. 


A  Design  for  a  Poster  23 

As  'e  stood  an'  grinned  at  'er  'olding  the  Windsor  chair, 
an'  I  kep'  my  eye  at  the  hole  in  the  old  boat,  I  'card  'er 
friend  say  to  'er  in  a  voice  'arf  choked  with  larfin' : 

"You're  right,"  says  she ;  "it  is,"  she  says,  "the  funniest 
type" — I  thought  she'd  called  'Orris  a  tyke  at  first,  but  I 
found  out  the  meanin'  o'  the  word  arterwards  an'  it  didn't 
do  'Orris's  looks  no  credit — "I've  seen  for  a  long  time  an' 
perfec'  for  a  comic  poster.  But  you  won't  make  it  a 
absolute  likeness,"  says  she.  "A  man  seeing  it  on  the 
hoardings  might  feel  hurt." 

"My  dear  girl,"  says  her  pretty  artis'  friend  in  the  sed 
Tommy  Chanter,  "you  couldn't  hurt  that  man's  feelings. 
If  I  am  any  judge  of  character,"  says  she,  "he'll  take  it 
for  a  compliment,  and  I  can't  lose  such  a  chance.  It's 
heaven-sent." 

"What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  patent  medicine 
you  were  to  design  a  poster  for?"  asks  the  other  young 
lady  wot  wasn't  so  young. 

"It's  a  patent  Summer  application  to  prevent  pain  or 
irritation  from  the  stings  or  bites  of  insects,"  says  the 
pretty  young  lady  in  the  red  Tommy  Chanter,  "and  the 
patented  name  of  the  preparation  is  'Still  He  Smiles.' 
Just  look  at  that  man  and  ask  yourself  if  you  ever  saw 
a  more  fatuous  smile  than  he  is  wearing  at  this  moment. 
Now,  if  I  get  a  good  likeness  of  him  as  he  is,  drawn  boldly 
with  the  brush  on  the  background  of  sand,  with  a  strip  of 
blue  sky  above,  I  could  put  in  a  gnat,  enormously  exag- 
gerated, hovering  about  his  nose,  and  that  idiotic  expres- 
sion of  his  would  do  the  rest." 

My  'art  fair  jumped  into  my  mouth. 

"Young  ladies,"  says  I,  whispering  in  a  still  small  voice 
through  my  peep-'ole,  "don't  jump  or  look  round,  an' 
take  a  bit  of  advice  from  a  father-in-law." 

"Oh!  it's  you  again,  is  it?"  says  the  lady  artis',  keep- 
ing her  'ead  straight  though.  "Don't  you  think  you're 
rather,"  she  says,  "an  interfering  old  person?"  says  she. 


24  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Call  me  wot  you  please,"  says  I,  "so  long  as  you  gits 
'Orris  to  set  the  Windsor  chair  on  that  soft-lookin'  patch 
o*  sand  about  twenty  foot  ahead  of  you,  with  a  tuft  of 
sea-pink  stickin'  up  in  the  middle.  There's  a  wopses'  nest 
there,"  I  says,  "as  nobody  knows  of  yet  but  me,  an'  I'd 
made  up  my  mind  to  smoke  it  out  an'  earn  sixpence  from 
the  County  Council  for  so  doin'  come  to-morrow.  An'  if 
you  knew  'ow  that  long-nosed  skate-faced,  self-satisfied- 
lookin'  lout  'ad  treated  my  dead  daughter  an'  'er  old 
father,"  I  says,  "you'd  understand  why  I  wants  to  see 
'Orris  served  out.  Also,  if  you  can  git  'im  into  thinkin' 
that  you're  a  bit  in  love  wi'  'im,  'e'd  go  through  fire  and 
water  before  'e'd  move  or  even  let  a  corner  of  'is  smile 
drop,  if  wild  elephants  instead  of  wild  wopses  was  a-com- 
ing  at  'im." 

"Mr.  ..."  says  she,  calling  to  'Orris  in  'er  clear  sweet 
voice,  and  I  could  tell  by  his  silly  expression  that  her  face 
was  a-smiling  at  'im.  "I'm  afraid  you're  a  little  too  near. 
If  you  would  kindly  place  the  chair  on  that  patch  of  sand 
where  the  tuft  of  sea-pink  is,  I  should  be  able  to  see  you 
to  better  advantage." 

"With  pleasure,  miss,"  says  'Orris,  obligin'  like  a  lamb, 
an'  he  puts  the  chair  where  the  young  lady  in  the  red 
Tommy  Chanter  pinted  with  the  end  of  'er  brush,  an'  sets 
down.  The  sand  being  soft  there,  down  sinks  the  'ind- 
legs  of  the  Windsor  in  it,  an'  they  keeps  on  a-sinking,  little 
by  little,  till  'Orris's  silly  face  is  tilted  up  at  the  sky  an'  'is 
chin  is  nearly  restin'  on  his  knees.  An',  havin'  my  eye  on 
the  wopses'  nest,  I  see  a  couple  come  to  their  front  port- 
hole, look  out,  an'  hurry  back  to  tell  the  rest  that  it  was 
a  man. 

The  young  lady  artis'  begins  to  draw  'Orris  in  thick 
black  lines  on  the  blue  sky  an'  sand  wot  she'd  slapped  in 
with  a  dab  or  two  of  a  brush  like  a  'ouse-painter's,  and 
'Orris  stares  at  the  sky  an'  smiles  an'  smiles.  The  wopses 
was  a-gathering  in  knots  at  their  front  door,  consultin' 


A  Design  for  a  Poster  25 

where  to  begin.  A  scoutin'  party  was  climbin'  up  over 
the  insteps  of  'Orris's  shoes  with  a  view  to  further  pro- 
ceedin's,  an'  a  low  faint  buzz  reached  us  where  we  was. 
I  was  afraid  'Orris  'ud  'ear  it. 

"Are  you  fond  of  music?"  asks  the  young  lady,  who 
prob'ly  was  afraid  of  the  same  thing. 

"Passionate  fond,  miss,"  says  'Orris,  screwin*  'is  eyes 
down  to  look  sweet  at  'er.  "I  remember  it  when  I  'ear 
you  talk,  your  voice  is  so  much  like  it." 

Then  I  only  could  squint  down  at  the  top  of  the  red 
Tommy  Chanter.  I  could  see  that  the  young  lady  was 
mad  at  'Orris  'aving  the  nerve  to  pay  'er  compliments  like 
that. 

"Oh,  go  on,"  begs  her  friend  in  a  chokin*  whisper, 
"draw  him  out,  Nellie,  do ;  there's  a  dear." 

"Please  turn  your  face  a  little  more  this  way,"  says  the 
young  lady  in  a  soft,  kind  tone,  "and  keep  on  smiling." 

"My  poor  dear  wife  used  to  like  me  to  smile,  miss," 
says  'Orris,  doing  it  something  fearful.  "But  I  never 
thought  to  meet  another  'oo  felt  the  same  way.  Owch !" 

A  wopse  'ad  gie  'im  a  stab  in  the  ankle  with  'is  sting, 
an'  I  don't  blame  the  inseck  overly  neither. 

"Oh,  pray  don't  change  your  expression !"  calls  out  the 
young  lady.  "It's  the  essence  of  my  idea  that  you  should 
smile."  Her  friend  was  chokin',  an'  'ow  she  kep'  'er  own 
countenance,  I  dunno. 

"Somethink  stinged  of  me,  miss,  just  then,"  says 
'Orris,  pleadin'-like,  "an'  made  me  for  to  call  hout." 

"You  don't  mean,"  says  the  young  lady,  stern-like, 
with  the  top  of  her  red  Tommy  Chanter  fair  shakin'  with 
the  larfin'  she  were  keepin'  out  of  'er  voice,  "that  you 
would  let  a  little  thing  like  that  interfere.  When  first  I 
saw  your  face,"  she  goes  on,  warmin'  to  'er  work,  "I  was 
impressed  by  it.  It  struck  me  as  the  face  of  a  man  who 
would  dare  all,  endure  all,  and — bear  all  for  the  sake  of 
the  woman  he " 


26  A  Sailor's  Home 

She  breaks  down  and  chokes  with  larfin'  behind  her 
picture,  an'  'Orris  'e  gits  in  'is  'ead  she's  cryin'  because  of 
'er  disappointment  in  him.  There  was  wopses  in  'is  hair 
an'  the  bits  o'  whisker  that  stuck  out  at  the  sides  of  'is 
silly  face,  an'  little  clouds  of  wopses  was  'ummin'  an' 
buzzin'  about  'im  as  if  they  'ad  trouble  in  makin'  up  their 
minds  where  to  begin.  An'  Little  Week-End  isn't  to  call 
a  large  place,  but  most  of  the  people  in  it  was  gathered 
on  the  beach  to  stare  at  'Orris  sittin'  on  a  Windsor  chair 
atop  of  a  wopses'  nest  lettin'  a  young  lady  take  'is  por- 
trait. An'  I  stood  up  in  the  Skylark  an'  tair  enjoyed  the 
treat. 

"Is  it  for  a  bet,  matey?"  calls  out  a  boatman  wot  didn't 
like  'Orris,  nor  he  wasn't  the  only  one  there. 

"Lor!  look  at  them  narsty  stingin'  beastes  'overin' 
round  you,  Mr.  Touchitt,"  calls  out  Missis  Green. 

"  'E  don't  'ear  you,  mum,  'e's  'avin'  'is  portrait  took," 
says  a  fisherman  wot  'Orris  'ad  done  crooll  over  a  bargain. 
But  'is  daughter  wot  my  precious  son-in-law  'ad  bin  mak- 
in' sheep's  eyes  at  even  before  Eliza  dropped  orf,  calls 
out: 

"  'E'll  be  stung  to  death,  'e  will.  Somebody  interfere 
or  I  shall." 

"You  keep  back,  Lucy  Gilbert,  or  I'll  let  you  know," 
says  'Orris,  keeping  'is  smile  unchanged.  "  'Ave  you 
nearly  done,  miss  ?"  An'  you  could  plainly  see  as  wot  'e 
was  undergoing  agonies. 

"Another  minute,"  says  the  young  lady,  "and  don't 
you  get  up  till  I  give  you  the  word,  or  your  portrait  will 
be  spoiled.  I  shall  never  have  such  another  subject,"  says 
she  dabbing  away  right  and  left  very  fast,  "not  if  I  design 
picture  posters  for  a  hundred  years." 

"You'll  be  married  before  then,"  says  'Orris  in  a  low 
voice,  trying  to  look  serious  an'  keep  'is  balance  at  the 
same  time. 

"I  don't  know  of  anyone  who  would  have  me.  Do  you, 


A  Design  for  a  Poster  27 

Qara  ?"  says  the  young  lady  very  innocently  to  her  friend. 
"Oh,  Kitty,  you're  too  bad!"  says  the  friend.     "As 

if "    She  whispered  wot  came  next,  and  if  I  couldn't 

'ear,  nor  more  could  'Orris. 

"You  better  give  that  there  young  widower  a  chance, 
miss,"  says  I  from  behind  her.  "Got  a  reputation,  'e  'as 
for  makin'  females  'appy,  and  'as  a  nice  sunny  nature  of 
'is  own.  Soon  'as  'e  loses  one  wife  'e  starts  to  look  for 
another.  'E's  'ad  two,  young  as  'e  looks." 

The  crowd  gives  a  kind  of  titter,  which  'Orris  pretends 
not  to  'ear.  The  back  legs  of  the  chair  was  sinkin'  deeper 
an'  deeper,  and  'e  was  gettin'  more  and  more  uncomfort- 
able. 

"I  couldn't  believe  anything  bad  of  a  man  with  a  face 
like  his !"  says  the  young  lady  artist,  pretending  to  say  it 
in  a  kind  of  loudish  whisper  to  the  other  young  lady.  "I 
never  saw  one  like  it,  and  I  don't  believe  I  ever  shall." 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  says  'Orris,  gittin'  red  to  the  tops 
of  'is  ears.  "It's  well  to  be  spoke  well  of  by  them  as  'as 
good  'earts." 

"Oh,  but  you  have  a  good  heart,  I  feel  sure !"  says  the 
young  lady,  dabbing  away  for  dear  life,  an'  the  scarecrow 
'Orris  looked  in  'er  picture  was  only  second  to  the  image 
'e  made  out  of  it.  'E  turns  'is  'ead  to  give  'er  a  loving 
look,  an'  in  screwin'  'is  neck  round,  one  of  the  back  legs 
of  the  chair  breaks,  an'  down  'e  goes  atop  of  the  wopses' 
nest,  with  the  population  crowdin'  one  another  to  git  the 
next  sting.  'E  'owls  some'ink  orful  next  minnit,  an' 
picks  'isself  up  an'  rushes  into  the  sea. 

One  young  lady  larfin'  'er  'ead  orf,  packs  up  'er  traps, 
with  the  other  young  lady  sayin'  "Shoo !"  to  the  wopses. 
Then  bein'  ready  to  go,  she  calls  to  me,  'Orris  bein' 
afraid  to  come  ashore  there,  an*  'avin'  waded  farther  up 
the  beach,  dabbin'  'is  stung  face  with  'is  wet  'ands  an' 
bein'  sorry  for  'isself. 

"Aren't  you  sorry  for  your  poor  son-in-law,  you  un- 


28  A  Sailor's  Home 

kind  old  man  ?"  says  she.  "Why,  he  won't  be  able  to  get 
his  hat  on  to-morrow !" 

"  'E  'ad  a  swelled  'ead  before,  miss,"  says  I.  "An' 
you're  the  better  by  'is  lovely  picter." 

"Give  'im  this,"  says  she,  'andin'  me  a  five-shillin' 
piece.  An'  she  then  goes  off,  larfin',  with  the  other. 

"I  would  if  we  was  on  speakin,  terms,"  says  I  to  my- 
self, slippin'  the  cart-wheel  into  my  trowsies  pocket.  But 
if  'Orris  won't  'ave  nothin'  to  do  wi'  me,  ?tain't  my  place 
to  make  advances. 


Ill 

A   STRATEGIC   MOVEMENT 

WHEN  Mr.  William  Jupp,  mariner,  late  of  the 
tramping  clay-steamer  Lucy  of  Looe,  from  Stock- 
holm to  London  Docks  with  a  return-cargo  of  fresh 
butter  and  middle-aged  eggs,  had  drawn  his  pay  as  A.B. 
— a  title  hotly  contested  by  the  captain  and  mate  of  the 
Lucy  of  Looe — a  desire  to  inhale  once  more  the  health- 
giving  breezes  of  his  native  Kentish  Town  and  renew  old 
ties,  somewhat  rudely  broken  a  few  brief  years  previous- 
ly, led  the  returned  prodigal  to  board  a  'bus  bound  for 
the  north-west. 

To  nostrils  fresh  from  the  ocean  breezes,  the  perfume 
of  haddocks  in  the  Queen's  Crescent  could  give  no  sensa- 
tion that  was  new,  and  after  traversing  a  grove  of  these 
saline  articles  of  diet,  tastefully  interspersed  with  cheap 
haberdashery  and  old  ironware,  Mr.  Jupp  steered  down 
a  narrow  turning,  pausing  at  the  corner  public-house  to 
inquire  the  time,  and  finally  brought-to  at  the  middle 
house  of  a  squeezy  row  of  five.  Unmistakable  signs  of 
festivity  distinguished  the  dwelling:  the  muslin  curtains 
were  stiff  with  recent  starch,  and  the  doorsteps  were 
dazzlingly  clean.  A  potman  from  the  public-house  at  the 
corner  was  in  the  act  of  delivering  such  a  number  of 
frothing  quart  pots  at  the  area  door  that  Mr.  Jupp's  first 
solo  on  the  front-door  knocker,  which  wore  a  white  cali- 
co favour  of  huge  proportions,  was  rendered  faint  by 
emotion.  Upon  a  repetition  of  the  knock,  his  sister  Liz- 

29 


30  A  Sailor's  Home 


zie,  a  fresh-coloured  young  woman  of  twenty-three,  in  a 
state  of  excitement  and  ribbons  which  even  Mr.  Jupp 
hesitated  to  attribute  to  joy  at  his  return,  opened  to  the 
wanderer. 

"What  ho,  Liz!"  said  Mr.  Jupp  with  easy  playful- 
ness. 

"My  gracious !"  remarked  the  fresh-coloured  young 
woman,  without  perceptible  rapture,  "it's  Bill!" 

"The  same  as  ever,"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  by  a  brotherly 
salute  convincing  the  young  woman  that  his  fraternal 
feelings  and  the  bristles  on  his  chin  were  as  strong  as 
ever.  She  squealed,  and  at  the  shrill  sound  the  upper 
half  of  the  body  of  another  young  woman — in  a  similar 
condition  as  to  ribbons  and  excitement — appeared  above 
the  landing  of  the  kitchen  stairs. 

"We  don't  want  no  coal  to-day,"  cried  the  second 
young  woman.  "Get  off  my  clean  doorstep,  will  you? 
Here  Rover !  Ro " 

"It  ain't  the  coalman,"  said  Lizzie,  as  a  chain  rattled 
in  the  back-yard  and  a  hoarse  bark  responded  to  the 
second  young  woman's  call.  "It's  Bill  come  home  from 
sea!" 

"Don't  make  as  though  you  didn't  know  as  what  I  was 
a-coming,  both  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Jupp  in  an  injured  tone, 
"when  you've  'ad  a  letter  to  say." 

The  young  women  exchanged  a  glance  and  shook  their 
heads.  "That's  another  of  yours,  Bill."  said  the  first 
young  woman.  "We  haven't  'ad  no  letter." 

"Nor  you  didn't  write  us  none,  neither,"  said  the  sec- 
ond young  woman.  "If  anythink  came,  it  was  a  post- 
card!" 

"It  were  a  post-card,"  said  the  injured  Mr.  Jupp, 
"with  a  pictur'  of  the  King  o'  Sweden  on  it." 

"And  no  stamp,"  said  the  second  young  woman.  "The 
postman  wanted  me  to  pay  tuppence  for  it,  so  I  wouldn't 
take  it  in.  It  was  just  like  you,  he  said." 


A  Strategic  Movement  31 

"The  pictur'  of  the  King  of  Sweden?"  inquired  the 
flattered  Mr.  Jupp. 

"No ;  the  meaness  of  posting  it  without  a  stamp,"  said 
the  second  sister. 

"I'll  remember  that  postman  when  I  see  *im,"  said  the 
injured  Mr.  Jupp.  "Meantime,  are  you  two  gals  a-going 
to  let  me  come  aboard — in,  I  mean — or  ain't  you?" 

"I  suppose  we  must,"  said  Bessie,  the  second  young 
woman,  who  was  the  elder  of  the  Misses  Jupp.  "Troub- 
les never  come  singly,"  she  added. 

"It  never  rains  but  it  pours !"  remarked  "Lizzie,  as  she 
economically  opened  the  hall  door  just  wide  enough  to 
admit  the  form  of  the  returned  wanderer,  and  warmly 
urged  him  to  wipe  his  boots  once  more  upon  the  mat 
which  adorned  the  sacred  threshold  of  home.  "No, 
don't  you  go  in  there!"  she  added  hastily,  as  Mr.  Jupp 
extended  his  hand  towards  the  knob  of  the  front-parlour 
door.  "That's  where  it's  all  laid  out  an'  waiting!" 

"Not  a  corpse!"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  hastily  withdrawing 
his  hand. 

Both  the  girls  giggled,  and  Mr.  Jupp,  who  had  a  rooted 
aversion  to  corpses,  felt  relieved.  "I  noo  if  it  was,  it 
couldn't  be  neither  o'  you,"  he  explained,  as  he  followed 
his  sisters  to  the  basement  kitchen,  "  'cos  the  best  ones  of 
a  family  are  them  what  always  gets  took  fust.  Elfred, 
or  Joe,  I  expected  it  'ad  'ave  bin,  or  father.  'Ow  is  the 
old  man,  since  we're  talkin'?" 

"You  may  well  ask  how  father  is !"  said  Bessie,  tossing 
her  head.  "You  wouldn't  need  to  ask  if  you  knew  where 
he  is." 

"Why,  where  is  'e?"  inquired  Mr.  Jupp's  puzzled  son. 

"He's  at  church!"  replied  "Lizzie.  She  exchanged  a 
knowing  wink  with  her  sister,  and  together  the  young 
women  enjoyed  the  pictorial  changes  of  expression  which 
rapidly  succeeded  one  another  on  the  mobile  countenance 
of  their  elder  brother. 


32  A  Sailor's  Home 

"At  church!"  gasped  Mr.  Jupp  at  length.  "Father! 
Why,  what's  come  over  Mm?" 

"You  may  well  ask,"  said  Bessie.  "Do  you  call  to 
mind  the  little  sweet-an'-tobacco  shop  in  Railway  Lane, 
kep'  by  a  widow  what  never  really  was  one — a  Mrs. 
Clark,  with  a  red  nose  an*  a  lot  o'  little  ringlets  of  'obitrn 
'air?  You  do?  Well,  that's  what's  come  over  father!" 

"Sweet-an'-tobacco  shop  in  Railway  Lane !  'Ow  could 

that  come  over ?"  Mr.  Jupp  was  beginning,  when  an 

inner  light  dawned  upon  him,  and  he  heavily  smote  his 
knee.  "You  mean  the  widder!"  he  cried.  "Well,  I'm 
blowed !  An*  so  father's  up  to  a  bit  of  a  lark  at  'is  age ! 
Well  done,  'im !" 

"If  you  call  gettin'  married  to  a  red-nosed  old  cat  a 
bit  of  a  lark,"  said  Bessie,  "that's  what  he  is  up  to  this 
minute.  Joe  an'  Elfred  fave  gone  to  be  bridesmaids," 
she  added,  as  Mr.  Jupp  gave  vent  to  a  piercing  whistle  of 
astonishment,  "as  me  and  Liz  couldn't  be  spared  from 
'ome." 

"You  could  'ave  got  a  gal  in,"  suggested  Mr.  Jupp. 
whose  protracted  abstinence  from  malt  liquor — his  last 
pint  having  been  absorbed  at  the  corner  public-house 
previously  mentioned — rendered  his  brain  preternatural- 
ly  clear. 

"I  reckon  we  could,  sillv,"  retorted  "Lizzie;  "an*  left 
her  to  look  after  the  weddin'-breakfast  an'  take  in  the 
beer." 

"I  could  'a*  done  that  for  you,"  hazarded  Mr.  Jupp. 

"I  lay  you  could,"  said  Bessie,  with  an  unsisterly  em- 
phasis that  brought  a  flush  to  the  brow  of  the  returned 
prodigal;  "and  watch  the  furniture,  too." 

"Watch  the  furniture!"  echoed  Mr.  Jupp.  "For  fear 
of  bailiffs,  d'yer  mean?" 

"For  fear  of  stepmothers,  which  is  worse,"  said  Lizzie 
Jupp,  her  ribbons  bristling  with  defiance  of  the  lady  who 
was  at  that  moment  receiving  the  vows  of  the  elder  Mr. 


A  Strategic  Movement  33 

Jupp.  "You've  no  idea  what  a  under'anded,  artful  thing 
she  is,  for  all  'er  mealy-mouthed  talk." 

"But  we've  got  the  better  of  'er,  mealy-mouth  an'  all," 
said  Bessie,  "or  we  shall  when  her  and  father  'ave  start- 
ed on  the  wedding  journey  to  their  new  'ome.  There's 
all  'is  clothes  packed  in  that  corded  box  in  the  passage, 
ready  to  go  away." 

"'Ome!"  echoed  Mr.  Jupp.  "Why,  ain't  this  their 
'ome?" 

"Not  while  me  an'  Liz  an*  Elf  red  an'  Joe  are  inside  of 
it,  whatever  you  may  be  pore-spirited  enough  to  think," 
said  Bessie. 

"Why,  ain't  it — ain't  it  big  enough?"  hazarded  Mr. 
Jupp,  his  eye  questing  furtively  in  search  of  the  beer- 
cans. 

"No !"  said  Bessie  plumply. 

"It  used  to  be,  when  mother  was  alive,"  said  Mr.  Jupp, 
whose  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth  with  thirst. 

"But  it  isn't  now,"  said  Lizzie.  "The  fust  thing  me 
and  Bess  done,  when  father  broke  the  news  of  'is  engage- 
ment, was  to  move  'is  bed  an'  chest  of  drawers  an'  wash- 
stand  an'  things  up  into  the  little  attic  in  the  roof,  an' 
take  his  large  first-floor  front  bedroom  for  ourselves. 
Then  we  divided  the  other  two  bedrooms  between  Elf  red 
and  Joe,  an'  dared  'em  to  move  out.  Father  tried  'ard 
to  come  over  'em  to  change  with  'im,  and  once  or  twice 
he  managed  it;  but  we  always  changed  his  things  back 
to  the  attic  whenever  he  moved  'em  out,  an'  at  last  he 
got  resigned  an'  took  a  little  furnished  house  at  Tghgate 
Clayfields  for  himself  an'  his  bride." 

"What  about  the  rent  o'  this  one?"  asked  Mr.  Jupp, 
with  bluntness. 

"There's  only  two  quarters  more  to  pay  to  the  Building 
Society,"  said  Bessie,  "and  then  the  house  is  ours." 

"Father's,  you  mean,"  Mr.  Jupp  was  going  to  say,  but 
the  look  in  Bessie's  eye  silenced  the  words  upon  his 


34  A  Sailor's  Home 

tongue,  and  he  turned  the  conversation,  dwelling  upon 
the  dryness  of  the  weather  and  the  thirst-provoking 
properties  of  the  air  of  Kentish  Town.  The  arid  lack  of 
sympathy  with  which  his  hints  were  ignored  was  fast 
converting  him  from  a  man  and  a  brother  into  a  mere 
man,  when  the  legs  of  a  cab-horse  were  seen  to  pass  the 
window  of  the  basement  kitchen,  from  which  all  light 
was  immediately  afterwards  blocked  out  by  the  body  of 
a  four-wheeled  cab.  A  moment  later  Mr.  Jupp's  latch- 
key was  heard  in  the  door,  which  his  daughters  had 
thoughtfully  bolted. 

"I  thought  it  might  be  you,"  said  Lizzie,  as,  after  a 
protracted  interval,  during  which  Mr.  Jupp  senior  had 
been  heard  to  swear,  she  admitted  the  happy  couple, 
followed  by  the  bridesmaids,  Joe  and  Alfred;  a  sandy- 
haired,  middle-aged  niece  of  the  bride,  attired  in  the  blue 
serge  and  poke-bonnet  of  the  Salvation  Army;  a  stout 
lady  in  a  velvet  mantle  and  feathers,  who  had  taken  over 
the  lease,  fixtures,  stock,  and  goodwill  of  the  little  sweet- 
and-tobacco  shop  in  the  Railway  Lane,  and  who  had 
brought  her  little  girl;  and  three  of  Mr.  Jupp's  male 
cronies  and  club  associates  who  had  come  to  give  their 
friend  countenance  and  support. 

"If  you  thought  it  was  me — us,  I  mean,"  said  Mr. 
Jupp,  with  a  fatherly  scowl,  "  'ow  is  it  you  didn't  open 
the  door  ?"  He  led  his  blushing  bride  past  his  daughters, 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  front  room  where  the  wed- 
ding-breakfast was  spread,  and  smoothed  his  corrugated 
brow  as  he  viewed  his  well-spread  board.  "Eliza,  you 
set  at  the  'ead,  side  o'  me,"  he  continued.  "Missis  Jenks, 
you  an'  Lotty  come  'ere  on  my  left.  Clarkson,  look  after 
the  bottom  of  the  table ;  there's  a  cold  loin  o'  pork  out  o' 
your  own  shop  what  we'll  look  to  you  to  carve.  Widgett, 
you  git  on  the  left  'and  o'  Clarkson,  an'  Blaberry,  you  set 
on  'is  knife  side.  Joe  an'  Elf  red,  stow  yourselves  where 
you  can.  Now,  then,  gals,  where's  the  beer?" 


A  Strategic  Movement  35 

But  neither  Mr.  Clarkson,  who  was  gallant  as  are  all 
butchers,  nor  Mr.  Blaberry,  who  was  a  builder,  nor  Mr. 
Widgett,  who  kept  an  oil  and  hardware  store,  would  be 
seated  before  the  Misses  Jupp,  whose  natural  charms 
heightened  by  ribbons  and  indignation,  had  created  an 
instantaneous  impression. 

"We're  coming  directly,"  said  Bessie,  with  a  fascinat- 
ing smile,  bestowed  impartially  upon  all  three  men,  "an' 
so's  the  beer.  No  wonder  pore  father  wants  a  drop, 
after  all  he  has  gone  through  this  morning." 

"Gone  through?"  echoed  the  stout  lady,  who,  having 
acquired  the  sweet-and-tobacco  shop  upon  low  terms, 
was  temporarily  an  enthusiastic  partisan  of  the  new  Mrs. 
Jupp.  "Gone  through?" 

"You're  a  bit  deaf,  ain't  you?"  said  Bessie,  bridling. 
"So's  father,  in  one  ear,  and  both  when  sensible  people 
try  to  offer  'im  advice.  I've  half  wished  /  was,  more 
than  once  o'  late,  when  I've  'appened  to  over'ear  remarks 
as  'ave  bin  made.  What  was  it,  Liz,  the  cabman  said 
when  you  took  'im  out  'is  fare?" 

"  'No  fool  like  an  old  fool,'  I  think  it  was,"  said  "Lizzie, 
serving  out  the  beer  and  accidentally  passing  over  the 
bride,  an  instance  of  neglect  which  the  incensed  bride- 
groom remedied  by  wresting  the  jug  from  his  rebellious 
offspring  and  helping  his  wife  himself.  "But  'e  'ad  a 
shilling  in  'is  mouth,  and  it  didn't  come  out  clear.  Move 
up  a  bit  more,  Joe ;  another  plate  'as  got  to  get  in  at  this 
corner.  Ain't  it  pleasant,"  she  continued  brightly — "we 
shall  be  just  thirteen  at  table — with  Bill?" 

Mr.  Jupp  senior's  loaded  fork  had  been  arrested  on  its 
way  to  his  mouth  at  the  sound  of  the  prodigal's  name. 
As  the  door  creaked  modestly  open,  his  jaw  visibly 
dropped,  but  he  shook  hands  with  the  thirteenth  guest 
with  some  show  of  cordiality,  and  introduced  her  eldest 
stepson  to  the  new  Mrs.  Jupp  by  the  simple  process  of 
jerking  his  chin  at  the  gentleman  and  immediately  nudg- 


36  A  Sailor's  Home 

ing  the  lady  in  the  side.  Rendered  venomous  by  the  at- 
tacks of  the  sisters,  the  late  incumbent  of  the  sweetstuff- 
and-tobacco  shop  saw  in  the  awkward  form  and  embar- 
rassed countenance  of  the  returned  wanderer  a  suitable 
sacrifice,  and  immediately  proceeded  to  offer  him  up,  by 
asking  how  long  he  had  been  away. 

"Five  years !"  said  Mr.  William  Jupp  with  brevity. 

"Dear,  dear !"  ejaculated  the  new  Mrs.  Jupp,  "and  did 
they  give  you  as  much  as  that?" 

"Did  who  give  him  what?"  queried  Mr.  Jupp  senior  in 
some  surprise. 

"The  judge  and  jury,  I  meant,  but  I  was  afraid  it  'ud 
wound  'is  feelings  to  mention  'em,"  explained  the  new 
Mrs.  Jupp  delicately. 

"What  maggot  'ave  you  got  into  your  'ead  now,"  de- 
manded the  bridegroom,  "'bout  judges  and  juries?  Bill 
'as  bin  away  to  sea." 

"I'm  shore  I  beg  pardon,"  apologised  the  new  Mrs. 
Jupp,  as  her  eldest  stepson  commanded  his  swollen  feel- 
ings and  addressed  himself  to  cold  pork  and  beer.  "I 
must  'av  bin  thinking  of  your  pore  wife's  brother  Ben 
what  broke  the  jeweller's  winder  with  a  brick  an'  stole 
a  trayful  o'  wedding-rings." 

"I  wonder  at  'im,  if  'e  did,"  said  Mr.  William  Jupp, 
glaring  pointedly  at  his  new  parent  over  a  chop  bone,  at 
this  untimely  reference  to  the  undeniable  blot  on  the 
family  scutcheon.  "One  weddin'-ring's  enough  for  most 
men." 

"An*  too  much  for  some!"  said  his  younger  brother 
Joe,  stimulated  to  the  sally  by  the  shrill  giggles  of  his 
sisters. 

"Are  you  a-going  to  set  by  and  hear  me  insulted  at 
your — at  my  own  table,  an'  on  such  a  day  as  this?"  de- 
manded the  bride  shrilly  of  the  elder  Mr.  Jupp. 

"Joe,"  said  that  gentleman  in  a  voice  rendered  thick 
by  emotion  and  mashed  potato,  "you  an'  me'll  'ave  a 


A  Strategic  Movement 


word  in  the  back-yard  by-an'-by.  You  ain't  too  old  an* 
too  big  to  whop  —  whatever  others  may  be." 

"Come,    come  !"    said    Clarkson,    who    loved    peace. 

"  'Birds  in  their  little'—  you  know  !  Who'll  'ave  a  bit 
more  pork?"  and  he  smiled  genially  as  he  contemplated 
the  fast-vanishing  joint,  which  he  had  supplied. 

"Not  for  me!"  said  the  second  Mrs.  Jupp,  in  a  faint, 
ladylike  voice  as  she  pushed  away  her  empty  plate.  "I 
don't  wish  to  put  anybody  off  of  it  but  it  tastes  a  bit 
measly,  to  my  mind." 

"Measly!"  gasped  the  outraged  butcher,  crimson  from 
his  throttling  collar  to  the  tips  of  his  large  ears.  "Me  sell 
measly  meat!  Look  here  -  " 

"Don't  pay  no  attention,  Mr.  Clarkson,"  said  Lizzie  in 
a  loud,  bright,  cheerful  whisper.  "Don't  you  know  them 
as  ain't  used  to  'ave  no  fresh  meat  are  always  the  'ardest 
to  please?  Bloaters  all  the  week  round,  an'  'block  orna- 
ments' on  Sundays  —  that's  about  'er  mark  !" 

"If  you're  a  man,  Jupp,"  panted  the  incensed  bride, 
"you'll  show  it  now,  by  standing  up  for  your  wife  !" 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  growled  Mr.  Jupp  senior, 
looking  up  from  a  plateful  of  apple-pie,  as  his  spouse 
sank  back  in  her  chair,  making  noises  in  her  throat  sug- 
gestive of  clucking  poultry  and  clocks  running  down. 
"What  'as  anybody  bin  an'  said  now?  You're  too  feel- 
ing, Eliza,  that's  what  you  are." 

"There,  there  !"  said  the  stout  lady  soothingly,  as  the 
poultry  and  the  clocks  continued  :  "there,  there's  a  dear  ! 
Give  'er  a  drop  of  beer,  Mr.  Jupp,  sir  —  the  jug's  your 
way.  See,  now,"  she  continued,  as  Mr.  Jupp's  compli- 
ance promptly  flooded  the  table-cloth,  "he's  'elped  you  as 
'e  loves  you  —  as  the  saying  is!" 

"There's  nothing  in  the  glass  but  froth,"  sobbed  the 
bride,  after  an  unavailing  attempt  to  drink  out  of  the 
tumbler. 

"Give  'er  the  jug,"  suggested  Alfred,  who  had  not  yet 


38  A  Sailor's  Home 

offered  any  contribution  to  the  general  conversation. 
Reading  in  his  father's  eye  an  appointment  in  the  back- 
yard similar  to  Joe's,  the  youth  choked,  and  the  elderly 
young  lady  in  Salvation  Army  uniform  patted  him  oblig- 
ingly upon  the  back. 

"That's  what  conies  of  eatin'  in  a  'urry,"  said  the  stout 
lady  rebukingly. 

"Don't  blame  the  pore  boy,"  said  his  new  mother  in  a 
sudden  access  of  affection,  "you'd  bolt,  if  you  was  kep' 
as  short  o'  food  as  Elfred  is.  Ribbons  an'  fal-lals  has  to 
be  paid  for  at  the  draper's,  if  two  young  women  as  ought 
to  know  better  want  to  be  took  for  worse  than  what  they 
are."  This  home-thrust  delivered  at  the  Misses  Jupp 
rendered  Bessie,  for  the  moment,  incapable  of  speech. 
Lizzie  was  about  to  plunge  into  the  arena,  when  the  pas- 
sage of  an  enormous  furniture-van  down  the  narrow 
thoroughfare  without  shook  the  small  house  so  violently 
that  she  was  obliged  to  cling  to  her  next  neighbours  for 
support.  These  being  Mr.  Clarkson  and  Mr.  Widgett, 
who  manifested  gratification  at  being  clung  to,  the  indig- 
nation of  Mrs.  Jupp  was  raised  to  boiling-point. 

"Well,  I'm  sure !"  she  said,  with  a  scandalised  glare  at 
the  offenders.  "Nice  goings  on  !" 

"Nice  goings  off,  you  mean,"  said  the  humorous  Mr. 
Widgett,  pointing  with  his  unoccupied  arm  to  the  word 
"Removals,"  which  was  painted  in  child-high  yellow 
letters  on  the  passing  vehicle. 

"Somebody's  doin'  a  quittin'  to-day,  ain't  'em?"  ob- 
served the  stout  lady. 

"Prob'ly  them  Cadgers  at  Number  Five,"  said  Mr. 
Jupp,  hastily.  "Told  me  yesterday  'e  thought  o'  movin' 
Cadger  did." 

"The  van's  stoppin'  'ere!"  squealed  the  little  girl  who 
had  accompanied  the  stout  lady,  as  the  house  left  off 
trembling  and  the  grinding  wheels  stopped. 

"It's  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  hastily  bolting  the  last 


A  Strategic  Movement  39 

mouthful  of  pie.  "I'll  go  an'  tell  'em "  He  rose,  but 

not  as  quickly  as  his  daughters. 

"Don't  you  trouble,  father,"  said  Lizzie,  with  unmis- 
takable meaning,  as  she  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  with- 
drew it,  and  placed  it  in  her  pocket. 

"You  sit  down  and  finish  your  beer,  father,"  said 
Bessie  warningly.  "You'll  have  to  start  in  a  few  minutes 
now  if  you  want  to  get  into  your  new  place  by  tea-time." 

"Out  away  by  'Ighgate  Clayfields,  ain't  it?"  queried 
Mr.  Blaberry. 

Some  secret  emotion  impeded  the  speech  of  Mr.  Jupp 
and  flushed  his  countenance,  as  he  replied  that  the  local- 
isation of  Mr.  Blaberry  was  in  every  way  correct,  and 
opened  a  bottle  of  unsweetened  gin. 

"Such  a  dismal,  lonesome,  out-o'-the-way  kind  o'  place 
to  settle  in,  I  should  'ave  thought,"  said  the  Salvation 
niece  of  Mrs.  Jupp  hesitatingly. 

"Not  for  a  noo  married  couple,  my  dear!"  said  the 
stout  lady,  taking  a  little  cold  water  in  a  glass  of  gin. 

"It's  what  I  call  a  hideel  situation — that's  what  I  call 
it!"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  sipping  at  a  tumbler  he  was  mixing 
for  his  wife  and  openly  winking  over  the  edge  of  it. 
"Down  near  the  bottom  of  a  nooly  opened  street  with  a 
railway-embankment  blockin'  up  the  end,  an'  a  reclaimed 
bit  o'  waste  ground  at  the  back.  No  shops  'cept  a  chand- 
ler's, which  is  also  a  greengrocer's  an'  a  butcher's  an'  a 
baker's  an'  grocer's  in  one.  No  drapers,  no  theayter, 
no  singin'-'all,  no  cookin'-club  nor  Young  Women's 
Friendly,  which  is  another  name  for  sweetheartin'  on 
the  sly.  Quarter  of  a  mile  to  walk  to  catch  your  train, 
an'  a  'bus  every  'arf-'our  to  the  places  you  don't  want  to 
go  to." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  both  be  'appy  there !"  said  Bessie, 
laughing  unrestrainedly.  "How  those  vanmen  are  bump- 
ing the  things  about  next  door !" 

"They've  done  now !"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  lighting  a  large, 


4O  A  Sailor's  Home 

pale  cigar  in  a  red  waisband,  as  the  heavy  doors  of  the 
van  banged  to,  and  the  vehicle  lumbered  away.  "They 
'adn't  much  to  take,"  he  added  incautiously.  "'Ere! 
Where  are  you  off  to?"  For  Lizzie  Jupp,  with  cheeks 
some  degrees  paler  in  hue,  had  risen  and  hurried  to  the 
door. 

"I — I  thought  I'd  'ave  a  look  at  the  kitchen  fire !"  she 
faltered,  her  uneasiness  increased  by  the  discovery  that 
the  new  Mrs.  Jupp  was  smiling. 

"Blow  the  kitchen  fire !"  said  Mr.  Jupp  lightly.  "Eliza, 
get  your  bonnet  on.  Joe,  you  run  and  fetch  a  cab." 

"There's  one  waiting  at  the  corner,  outside  the  'Froth- 
ing Pot/  "  said  Bessie  affectionately.  "Me  and  Liz  saw 
to  that!"  She  produced  a  large  bag  of  paper  confetti 
and  a  second-hand  boot  from  a  drawer  in  the  side- 
board, and,  in  a  pelting  blizzard  of  coloured  paper,  Mr. 
Jupp,  his  box,  and  his  newly  wedded  wife,  hurried 
through  the  hall,  down  the  doorsteps  and  into  the  cab, 
into  which  Alfred  was  hauled  at  the  last  moment  by  the 
author  of  his  being.  The  door  banged,  the  second-hand 
boot  shattered  the  window,  and  the  married  couple  had 
started  on  their  honeymoon. 

"Father  feels  shy,  I  suppose,"  said  "Lizzie,  giggling 
as  she  settled  her  ribbons  and  exchanged  a  look  of  tri- 
umph with  her  sister,  "or  he  wouldn't  have  took  Elfred." 

"He  may  keep  him  if  he  likes,"  said  Bessie  Jupp. 
"Always  too  much  of  a  favourite,  Elfred's  bin,  to  please 
me.  Now,  Mr.  Clarkson,  will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  after 
all  this  excitement,  or  something  better?" 

The  gallant  Mr.  Clarkson  said  he  would  have  some- 
thing better,  and  took  it  in  the  shape  of  a  kiss,  Messrs. 
Widgett  and  Blaberry  following  the  example  of  the  bold 
butcher,  in  claiming  like  tribute,  the  payment  of  which 
was  ungrudgingly  witnessed  by  Joe  and  Mr.  William 
Jupp,  while  rousing  shivering  emotions  of  disgust  and 
contempt  in  the  bosoms  of  the  stout  lady,  the  Salvation 


A  Strategic  Movement  41 

niece,  and  the  little  girl,  whose  expression  of  outraged 
virtue  was  wonderful  for  so  immature  a  performer. 
These  undesired  guests  had  just  reassumed  their  dis- 
carded headgear  and  taken  an  unregretted  leave,  and  the 
suggestion  of  spending  the  rest  of  the  evening  at  the 
theatre  had  just  been  mooted  by  the  popular  Oarkson 
and  hailed  with  rapture  by  the  two  young  ladies,  when  a 
thundering  tattoo  at  the  hall  door  caused  the  stout  lady  to 
start  and  scream,  and  the  unfastening  of  the  portal  re- 
vealed the  boy  Alfred,  hatless,  crimson,  splashed  with 
mud,  and  gasping  for  breath. 

"My  gracious  goodness !"  cried  the  stout  lady,  "there's 
bin  a  accident!" 

"Anything  happened?"  demanded  Clarkson. 

"What's  up,  Elf?"  said  his  elder  brother. 

"Can't  you  speak?"  urged  his  sister  Lizzie.  "You're 
frightening  everybody." 

"Gasping  like  a "  Bessie  did  not  say  like  a  "fish," 

because  fish  have  done  all  their  gasping  before  they  come 
to  be  sold  in  Kentish  Town ;  she  substituted  "like  a  bel- 
lows," which  satisfied  everybody.  "Is  anybody  ill — or 
dead?"  she  ended. 

The  boy  Alfred  gasped  once  more  and  said  "Father !" 

"What?" 

"No !" 

"You  don't  mean " 

"I  do,"  said  Alfred  loudly — "that  is,  leastways,  'e  ain't 
quite,"  he  continued  glibly.  "  'E's  'ad  a  sudden  stroke, 
an'  they've  carried  'im  into  Bickford  the  chemist's,  in 
the  Kentish  Town  Road;  an'  'e've  sent  me  'ome  to  say 
as  what's  'appened  is  a  judgment  on  'im  for  marryin' 
agin  'is  dear  daughters'  wishes.  An'  he  wants  the  one 
what  always  loved  'im  best  to  come  an'  witness  'is  will, 
'cos  'e  means  to  leave  everythink  to  'er.  You're  to  'urry 
there  at  once  without  goin'  upstairs  to  put  on  your  'ats, 
he  says,  in  case  he  changes  'is  mind." 


42  A  Sailor's  Home 

"The  one  what  always  loved  'im  best.  That  means 
me,"  said  Bessie,  as  she  snatched  her  errand-going  hat 
from  a  peg  in  the  hall.  "I  was  always  the  one  pore 
father  liked  best  of  all." 

"Ah,  but  I  was  the  one  what  made  the  most  of  'im !" 
said  Lizzie.  She  wrested  the  hat  from  her  sister's  grasp, 
and  darted  out  of  the  house,  down  the  steps,  and  round 
the  corner  in  an  instant. 

"Cat !"  ejeculated  Bessie.  Without  an  instant's  delay, 
she  forcibly  deprived  Alfred  of  his  cap,  and  ran  down 
the  street  after  Lizzie.  Messrs.  Clarkson,  Widgett,  and 
Blaberry,  left  standing  on  the  steps,  exchanged  dubious 
glances. 

"I  wonder  which  of  'em  he  thinks  loves  'im  best  ?"  said 
Mr.  Blaberry,  who  was  naturally  a  reflective  man. 

"I  wonder  which  o'  them  Jupp'll  leave  his  bit  o' 
money  to  ?"  said  Mr.  Clarkson.  "I  wish  I  was  quite  sure. 
As  to  their  love  for  'im,  it  seems  to  me  there's  more 
bone  than  meat  about  it — not  that  I  wish  to  predjudice 
you  against  'em." 

"You  couldn't  if  you  tried,"  said  Mr.  Widgett  ambigu- 
ously. He  started  at  an  amble,  and  Clarkson  and  Bla- 
berry guessed  that  his  distination  was  the  chemist's  in 
the  Kentish  Town  Road.  Mutually  on  their  guard 
against  the  meanness  that  strives  to  grasp  an  advantage, 
they  captured  their  hats  and  followed.  The  boy  Alfred, 
grinning  cheerfully,  watched  them  depart. 

Joe,  who  had  a  soft  heart,  snivelled. 

Mr.  William  Jupp,  who  had  hastened  back  into  the 
banqueting-chamber  to  fortify  himself  against  approach- 
ing bereavement,  helped  himself  to  the  beer  that  was  left, 
and  then  balanced  the  gin-bottle,  in  which  a  small 
quantity  yet  remained,  upside  down  upon  his  underlip. 

"It's  what  'appens  to  all  on  us,"  he  remarked  piously, 
his  eyes  still  riveted  piously  upon  the  ceiling.  "Slipped 
'is  cable  by  now,  'e  'as,  I  expect.  Ploorisy  or  pewmonia, 


A  Strategic  Movement  43' 

or  'plexy,  or  'paralicks,  or  one  o'  them  sicknesses  what  all 
seems  to  begin  with  the  same  letter.  What  did  the  chem- 
ist say  it  was,  Elf  red?" 

"The  chemist  said,"  growled  the  familiar  accents  of 
Mr.  Jupp  senior,  as  his  horrified  son,  with  a  yell,  dropped 
the  bottle  and  reeled  backwards  into  the  fortunately  empty 
fireplace — "the  chemist  said  it  were  the  best  joke  'e  ever 
'card  of  in  all  'is  life,  played  on  two  o'  the  brazenest- 
faced  'ussies  what  ever  laid  their  'eads  together  to  turn 
their  own  father  out  of  'is  own  'ouse  an'  'ome.  Come 
in  'ere,  Eliza ;  you're  in  your  own  place.  Bolt  the  front 
door  Elf ;  I  see  them  two  a-running  down  the  street." 
He  threw  up  the  parlour  window  and  leaned  with  dra- 
matic carelessness  upon  the  sill,  as  the  flushed  faces  of 
Bessie  and  Lizzie  appeared  above  the  level  of  the  area 
railings.  "Bin  'aving  a  bit  of  exercise?"  their  parent 
queried,  with  a  sarcastic  grin.  "Nice  warm  day  for  a 
run  if  you  don't  overdo  it.  I  see  you  'ave,  an'  upset 
yourselves,"  he  added  kindly,  as  the  outwitted  sisters 
burst,  with  one  accord,  into  loud  sobs.  "Better  git  'ome 
an'  lay  down  an'  'ave  a  cup  o'  tea — leastways,  the  one 
that  lays  down,"  he  added;  "the  one  what  don't  '11  'ave 
to  git  the  tea." 

"Fa- father!"  sobbed  Bessie.  "Oh,  what  a  wicked 
trick  you've  bin  an'  played  us !" 

"Oh,  father,"  wailed  Lizzie — "making  out  as  you  was 
dyin'an'all!" 

"You're  drawin'  public  attention  to  the  'ouse,"  said 
Mr.  Jupp  severely.  "Go  'ome  an'  torse  up  for  that  cup 
o'  tea !" 

"This  is  our  'ome !"  sniffed  Bessie. 

"You  know  it  is !"  added  "Lizzie  tearfully. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Jupp  genially,  his  arm 
affectionately  round  the  waist  of  the  second  Mrs.  Jupp. 
"Your  'ome  is  now  the  little  'ouse  at  'Ighgate  Clayfields, 
in  the  noo  street.  You'll  find  all  your  clothes  an*  things 


44  A  Sailor's  Home 

there,"  he  added;  "I  'ad  'em  took  away  while  we  was 
'aving  breakfast — lent  the  van-driver  my  spare  latch-key, 
I  did,  an'  two  pair  of  old  socks  what  'im  an'  'is  mate  put 
on  over  their  boots,  so  as  not  to  be  over'eard.  Now,  git 
along  'ome.  The  rent's  paid  in  advance  for  a  'arf- 
quarter.  I  make  you  a  present  o'  that." 

"Oh,  father!"  wailed  the  outcast  Peris.  "O-oh, 
father!" 

"You  go  to  Highgate"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  and  shut  the 
window  down. 


IV 
A  RELIEF  EXPEDITION 

WHEN  intelligence  of  the  alarming  illness  of  Mr. 
Jupp,  late  of  Arabella  Terrace,  Queen's  Crescent, 
Kentish  Town,  vras  imparted  to  the  children  of  his  first 
wife,  per  medium  of  a  soiled  and  wilted  postcard  in  the 
handwriting  of  his  second — a  missive  so  economically 
directed  that  it  had  been  delivered  at  and  rejected  as 
"Not  known"  from  eleven  different  addresses  in  the 
metropolitan  suburbs — a  general  council  or  indaba  was 
held.  This,  as  the  writer  of  the  postcard  had  enjoined 
upon  the  Jupps  complete  abstention  from  the  indulgence 
of  any  dutiful  impulse  to  seek  the  society  of  the  sufferer, 
naturally  ended  in  the  despatch  of  a  Relief  Expedition 
of  one  to  the  minute  country  farm  in  the  remote  country 
district  to  which  Mr.  Jupp,  impelled  by  the  yearning  to 
taste  fresh  air  and  home-grown  cabbages,  had  betaken 
himself  three  years  previously,  with  his  new  wife,  his 
youngest  son  Alfred,  and  his  old  house-dog  River,  whose 
bark  had  been  impaired  by  the  passage  of  time,  but  whose 
bite  was  nearly  as  good  as  ever. 

The  Relief  Expedition  consisted  of  the  exile's  eldest 
son,  Mr.  William  Jupp,  ex-mariner,  who,  in  default  of 
a  professional  outlet  for  his  obvious  talents,  had  been 
for  some  time  actively  engaged  in  swelling  the  ranks  of 
the  unemployed. 

A  bottle  of  whisky,  warranted  genuine  Scotch,  was 
purchased  for  two  and  elevenpence  at  "The  Bunch  of 

45 


46  A  Sailor's  Home 

Grapes"  by  the  invalid's  affectionate  daughter  Bessie, 
and  a  bundle  of  twelve  cigars,  from  the  emporium  of  the 
Zermuda  Company  next  door,  warranted  to  give  espe- 
cial satisfaction  for  a  shilling,  formed  the  dutiful  con- 
tribution of  his  second  son  Joe.  As  the  entire  pecuniary 
resources  of  Mr.  William  Jupp's  pockets  were  found, 
upon  family  examination,  to  consist  of  a  French  half- 
penny, the  amount  of  his  railway  fare,  with  an  addi- 
tional sixpence  for  refreshments,  was  contributed  with 
some  reluctance  by  Miss  Lizzie  Jupp. 

"Copcut  Elm  Farm,  Hoppen  Frogmarsh,  near  Crawl- 
ingford,  Berks,  that's  the  full  address,"  she  said,  as  with 
cold  distrust  she  accompanied  the  Expedition  to  the  rail- 
way station,  "and  don't  you  forget  it.  What  took  father 
such  a  ways  off  is  more  than  I  ever  could  understand,  un- 
less 'e  wanted  to  'ide  from  'is  own  flesh  and  blood !"  she 
added,  with  unconsciously  perfect  grasp  of  the  paternal 
motive.  "I've  only  took  a.single  ticket  to  Crawlingford," 
she  continued  acidly,  "becos  if  father  is  glad  of  your 
com'ny,  he'll  want  you  to  stop  over  the  week,  and  if  'e 
ain't,  'e'll  pay  the  'ome  fare  to  be  rid  of  you.  So  good- 
bye, and  mind  you  don't  come  'ome  without  knowin'  'ow 
pore  father  'as  made  out  'is  will." 

It  was  the  morning  of  a  bitter  January  day  that  saw 
the  Expedition  set  out  from  Paddington.  The  weather 
was  quite  seasonable,  little  pieces  of  damp  snow  flew 
into  the  carriage  whenever  the  windows  of  the  third- 
class  smoker  were  lowered,  or  the  doors  opened  for  the 
exit  of  a  passenger.  The  pollard  poplars  of  the  Thames 
Valley  loomed  ghostly  through  a  frosty  fog,  the  blue- 
nosed  porters  beat  their  chests  as  though  in  agonies  of 
operatic  remorse,  and  the  bottle  of  whisky  carried  in  the 
inside  pocket  of  Mr.  William  Jupp's  venerable  pilot 
jacket  began  to  burn  there.  As  the  venerable  clasp- 
knife  carried  by  the  Expedition  contained  a  corkscrew,  it 
was  not  long  before  the  spirits  in  the  bottle  had  evapo- 


A  Relief  Expedition  47 

rated  to  the  last  drop,  and  those  of  Mr.  William  Jupp 
had  been  elevated  to  the  highest  pitch.  He  lighted  cigar 
after  cigar  from  a  rapidly  shrinking  bundle  with  a  misty 
conviction  that  errands  of  mercy  brought  their  own  re- 
ward, and  that  so  far  the  Expedition  had  been  decidedly 
a  success. 

Ere  long,  quitting  the  shelter  of  the  third-class  smoker 
for  the  smallest  station  he  had  ever  seen,  announced  in 
Brobdingnagian  letters  to  be  Crawlingford,  Mr.  William 
Jupp  negotiated  the  descent  of  a  steep  flight  of  asphalted 
stairs  in  a  series  of  alarming  slides  and  flounders,  and 
had  emerged  into  a  landscape  unmarked  by  any  more  sa- 
lient features  than  hedges,  ditches,  pollard  trees  and 
snow,  before  he  realised  that  he  had  not  the  faintest 
recollection  of  the  address  at  which  presumably  reclined 
a  parent  in  extremity. 

Two  hours  of  heavy  walking  but  confirmed  him  in  the 
conviction  that  the  Expedition  was  lost,  and  passing 
between  a  straggling  double  row  of  very  small  cottages 
without  barns  or  hayricks,  and  coming,  at  the  end  of 
what  was  announced  per  finger-post  to  be  the  village  of 
Market  Rumbling,  upon  a  beerhouse,  he  realised  that  he 
must  drink  or  perish,  and  remembering  that  the  only  coin 
now  in  his  possession  was  the  halfpenny  of  the  French 
description,  acutely  regretted  the  enforced  separation 
from  family  and  friends.  Then  a  happy  thought  oc- 
curred to  him.  There  still  remained  half-a-dozen  cigars, 
only  slightly  frayed  from  pocket  friction.  Holding  three 
of  these  between  his  first  and  second  fingers,  in  the  ap- 
proved style  of  a  hawker,  he  entered  the  tap-room  and 
offered  the  nicotian  delicacies  in  exchange  for  the  quart 
of  beer  for  which  his  being  craved. 

The  landlord  scowled. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  hastily,  "us  don't  do  that  sort  o' 
business  'ere  no  more.  Been  cheated  already  by  a  sailor- 
lookin'  chap  o'  your  sort.  Like  enough  to  you  'a'  been 


48  A  Sailor's  Home 

your  brother.  Brown  paper  his  cigars  was,  wi'  tea- 
leaves  inside,  an*  but  that  I  'ad  the  sense  to  give  my  boy 
here  the  fust  to  try,  dog  sick  they'd  ha*  made  me. 
Wouldn't  'em,  Fred?" 

The  pimply  young  man  the  landlord  addressed  grunted 
in  a  surly  manner,  and  went  on  filling  a  mineral-water 
merchant's  crate  with  empty  sodas.  Rendered  desperate 
by  the  close  vicinity  of  the  beer-pulls,  Mr.  William  Jupp 
drew  the  French  halfpenny  from  his  pocket. 

"I've  got  a  curious  coin  'ere,"  he  said  with  a  simple 
air.  "Might  be  vallyble  to  anybody  what  understands 
such  things.  If  you  'ave  a  fancy  to  'ave  it,  it's  yours 
for  a  pint ;  only  say  the  word." 

The  landlord  said  several  words  and  pointed  to  the 
door.  Mr.  Jupp,  noting  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  the 
pimply  Fred  to  speed  the  parting  guest,  delicately  quitted 
the  premises.  A  thirst  raised  to  frenzy  by  the  sight  and 
odour  of  the  liquid  denied  by  an  arid  Fate  now  suggested 
to  the  castaway  mariner  a  method  by  which  the  thirst 
that  now  consumed  him  might  be  relieved.  It  was  get- 
ting dusk.  A  small  and  aggressively  scarlet  sun  was  in 
the  act  of  retiring  for  the  night  behind  curtains  of  dun- 
coloured  vapour,  the  powdery  snow  creaked  under  the 
footsteps  of  the  wayfarer,  and  a  knife-edged  easterly 
breeze  sawed  aggressively  at  his  tingling  ears.  People 
were  having  tea,  lights  began  to  twinkle  in  the  cottages, 
the  smell  of  buttered  toast  was  fragrant  on  the  air,  and 
outside  the  illuminated  parlour  window  of  a  prosperous- 
looking  cottage  dwelling  that  abutted  on  the  side-walk, 
Mr.  William  Jupp  halted  and  struck  up  a  hymn  with 
more  strength  of  lung  than  accuracy  of  musical  memory, 
and  greater  determination  to  attract  attention  than  to 
evoke  applause. 

There  was  only  one  Agnostic,  only  one  Socialist,  only 
one  Free  Thinker,  and  only  one  avowed  Republican  and 
Anti-Monarchist  in  the  village  of  Market  Rumbling,  and 


A  Relief  Expedition  49; 

he  made  up  for  the  small  numbers  of  his  party  by  the 
excessive  strength  and  virulence  of  his  opinions.  The 
waits  had  waited  upon  him  nightly  in  Christmas  week, 
only  consenting  to  curtail  their  programme  upon  the 
hasty  production  of  a  shot-gun,  and  the  musical  efforts 
of  Mr  Jupp  now  fell  like  oil  upon  the  still  glowing  fires 
of  his  indignation.  Rising  from  the  bed  to  which,  still 
fully  dressed  and  with  his  hat  and  boots  on,  he  was  wont 
to  retire  when  the  birds  sought  their  nests,  he  crept  to 
the  lattice,  opened  it  softly,  and  looked  out.  His  wife,  a 
person  of  normal  habits,  was  taking  tea  in  the  parlour- 
kitchen  below,  and  to  the  doomed  melodist  outside  its 
muslin-blinded  window  her  warning  gestures  seemed  to 
betoken  admiration. 

"Wants  me  to  tip  'er  another  verse,"  soliloquised  Mr. 
Jupp,  who  had  filled  up  gaps  in  the  first  with  fragments 
of  a  strictly  secular  nature.  "If  she  don't  stand  tuppence 
after  this,  it'll  be  sheer  robbery."  He  pressed  his  nose 
against  the  frosty  pane  and  sang  until  the  glass  was 
clouded  with  his  respiration  and  the  inner  hedge  of  ger- 
aniums fairly  vibrated. 

Then  the  contents  of  a  water-pail  of  capacious  size 
descended  impetuously  from  above,  the  lattice  closed 
smartly,  and  Mr.  Jupp,  with  chattering  teeth  and  stream- 
ing garments,  retired  to  a  safe  distance  from  the  cottage, 
from  which  he  swore  at  the  occupant  of  its  upper  cham- 
ber, until  loss  of  voice  caused  him  to  desist. 

"Call  yourself  a  Christian,  do  you,  you  'eathen  swine!" 
he  shouted,  impotently  shaking  his  dripping  fist  at  the 
imperturable  upper  lattice. 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  the  Agnostic  cottager,  suddenly 
putting  out  a  bushy-bearded  head  of  unwashed  com- 
plexion, adorned  by  a  crushed  felt  hat  firmly  tied  down 
with  a  blue  cotton  handkerchief.  "Nothing  o'  the  kind. 
You  come  singin'  hymns  under  my  winder  again,  and 
I'll  show  you  what  I  am,  with  a  cartridge  o'  small  shot ! 


50  A  Sailor's  Home 

It  was  the  organist  set  you  on,  or  the  schoolmaster.  Deny 
it  and  you're  a  liar!" 

"I'm  a  liar,  then,"  said  the  discontented  Mr.  Jupp, 
writhing  as  small  rivulets  of  chilly  water  trickled  from 
his  sleeves  into  his  pockets  and  meandered  down  his 
spine,  to  find  refuge  in  his  socks. 

"I  believe  you!"  said  the  Agnostic  cottager,  and 
slammed  the  window. 

The  milk  of  human  kindness  was  now  completely 
curdled  in  the  bosom  of  Mr.  Jupp.  His  belief  in  the 
virtue  of  his  fellow-creatures,  his  faith  in  the  soundness 
of  his  own  intentions,  with  the  filial  devotion  that  had 
spurred  his  footsteps  in  the  supposed  direction  of  the 
parental  bedside,  had  vanished.  So  had  the  last  recol- 
lected fragment  of  the  elder  Jupp's  address.  He  found 
himself  penniless  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  country, 
and  the  advisability  of  taking  the  next  train  back  to 
London  loomed  before  him,  as  largely  as  the  impossi- 
bility of  doing  so  without  the  money  for  a  return  ticket. 
Under  the  stress  of  circumstances  his  moral  character 
deteriorated  rapidly.  He  resolved  to  beg  the  return  fare 
and  a  trifle  over  from  the  next  prosperous-looking  per- 
son he  should  meet,  and  if  nothing  was  to  be  got  by  beg- 
ging, of  the  profitableness  of  which  as  a  profession  he 
entertained  grave  doubts,  to  have  recourse  to  measures 
of  a  desperate  nature,  involving,  if  necessary,  highway 
robbery  with  violence,  preferably  of  the  one-sided 
kind. 

It  was  getting  darkish.  The  last  rays  of  the  smoky 
sunset  had  vanished,  the  uncertain  glimmering  whiteness 
of  the  snow  seemed  to  have  absorbed  whatever  light  was 
left.  Turning  up  his  wet  coat-collar  and  unconsciously 
assuming  a  slouch  consistent  with  his  budding  purpose, 
Mr.  William  Jupp,  in  squelching  boots,  struck  out  dog- 
gedly in  search  of  an  opportunity.  It  approached  him 
presently  in  the  shape  of  a  burly  man,  who  had  his  head 


A  Relief  Expedition  51 

enveloped  in  a  fur  cap  with  earflaps,  and  his  neck  wound 
into  so  many  folds  of  a  woollen  comforter  that  his  nose, 
which  was  prominent  and  of  a  fiery  red,  and  a  bush  of 
iron-grey  whisker  on  either  side  of  a  conjectural  coun- 
tenance, alone  remained  exposed  to  the  weather.  He 
wore  a  shaggy  greatcoat,  and  drove  with  the  aid  of  a 
switch  an  animal  whose  grunt,  despite  the  dark,  adver- 
tised it  as  the  inhabitant  of  a  pigsty. 

Imparting  to  his  naturally  surly  tones  something  of 
the  oiliness  cultivated  by  the  habitual  mendicant,  Mr. 
William  Jupp  made  up  to  the  driver  of  the  hog,  wished 
him  the  compliments  of  the  season,  and  solicited  his  aid 
for  a  fellow-creature  in  trouble. 

"I'm  in  trouble  myself,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  said  the 
burly,  grey-whiskered  driver  of  the  hog,  in  husky  tones 
that,  filtered  through  the  thickness  of  the  muffler  that 
covered  his  mouth,  awakened  no  slumbering  echo  in  the 
memory  of  Mr.  William  Jupp.  "  'Aven't  I  got  this  'ere 
hog  to  drive  'ome  a  matter  of  four  mile  when  I'd  set  my 
'art  on  selling  'im  along  with  'is  brother  to  the  butcher 
at  Warming  Crossways — what  can  on'y  do  with  one, 
along  of  the  influenza  'aving  broke  out  among  'is  best 
customers  ?  'Aven't  I  got  to  keep  the  beast  over  Christ- 
mas?" the  speaker  continued  garrulously,  "by  which 
time,  out  o'  sheer  aggravation  at  Earl  Roberts  bein'  pre- 
ferred afore  'im,  he'll  'ave  fretted  'isself  thin.  Earl 
Roberts  is  'is  twin  brother;  'is  name  is  Lord  Kitchener. 
Don't  pay  me  no  compliments ;  I  didn't  baptize  neither  of 
them.  I  took  'em  over  with  a  litter  o'  piglings  from  the 
man  what  I  bought  my  little  farm  off  three  year  ago,  an* 
a  nice  cheat  'e  was,  to  do  'im  justice.  What  are  you 
turning  back  along  o'  me  for?  I  haven't  a  penny  to  give 
you,  I  wouldn't  give  you  one  if  I  'ad  it,  and  I'm  not  in 
love  with  company  o'  your  kind.  Why  don't  you  go  your 
own  ways  and  let  me  go  mine  ?" 

"Beg  par'n,  gentleman,  the  sound  o'  your  kindly  voice, 


'52  A  Sailor's  Home 

gentleman,"  persisted  Mr.  William  Jupp,  not  unsuccess- 
fully sustaining  his  adopted  character  of  professional 
mendicant,  as  he  persistently  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  muffled-up  man  who  drove  the  hog,  "  'as  melted 
my  'ard  'art  and  told  me  that  all  'uman  beings  do  not 
regard  the  pore  as  the  dirt  under  their  feet.  I  am  a 
orphan,  kind  gentleman,  without  a  relation  or  a  friend  in 
the  'ole  world,  and  not  a  blessed  mag  but  this  'ere  half- 
penny. It  is  'ard  on  a  British  sailor  what  'as  served  'is 
time " 

"An'  deserved  what  'e  got,  I  lay!"  growled  the  hog- 
driver,  who  would  have  walked  faster  if  the  hog  had 
been  agreeable. 

" — served  'is  time  in  the  Royal  Navy,  and  bin  broke 
down  in  'is  'ealth,"  said  Mr.  William  Jupp,  marvelling  at 
his  own  fluency,  "by  the  bursting  of  a  turrick  on  a  nooly 
invented  submarine.  With  burning  flames  around  me, 
gentleman,  I  clung  to  my  post " 

"You  ought  to  ha'  chucked  it  overboard,  an*  yourself 
with  it,  an'  floated  ashore  that  way,"  objected  the  man 
who  drove  the  pig.  "I've  a  son  in  the  seafaring  way 
myself,  an*  even  'e  would  'ave  'ad  sense  enough  for  that, 
I  reckin." 

"I  come  ashore  at  Portsmouth,  gentleman,  on'y  yes'- 
day,"  pursued  Mr.  William  Jupp,  "and  'ave  been  laying 
in  an  'orspital  ever  since  at  the  p'int  o'  death.  Now, 
discharged  an'  without  a  single  halfpenny " 

"Why,  you  showed  me  one  just  now,"  hypercritically 
objected  the  driver  of  the  pig. 

"Without  clo'es  to  cover  me  from  the  crool  cold,  or 
boots  to  protect  my  pore  feet  from  the  stones  of  the  'ard 
'ighway "  pathetically  continued  Mr.  William  Jupp. 

"Then,"  said  the  man,  correcting  a  deviation  of  the 
hog  with  the  switch,  and  quickening  his  pace  in  the  vain 
endeavour  to  outweary  the  determined  victim  of  an  un- 
grateful country — "then  you've  stole  the  decent  suit  and 


A  Relief  Expedition  53 

the  good  boots  what  you're  a-wearin'  now.  An*  I  don't 
know  but  what  I  shouldn't  be  doing  my  duty  to  the 
neighbourhood  in  'anding  you  over  to  the  police.  Git  on, 
Kitchener !" 

Kitchener  squealed  protestingly  at  a  reminder  from 
the  switch,  and  broke  into  a  trot.  So  did  his  owner,  so 
did  Mr.  William  Jupp. 

"Beg  par'n,  gentleman,"  he  recommenced,  as  they  plod- 
ded between  the  thatched  houses,  whose  lighted  windows 
still  revealed  family  parties  gathered  at  the  domestic 
tea-board.  "If  you'll  believe  me " 

"Do  I  look  like  a  fool?"  asked  the  driver  of  the  pig 
with  simple  directness. 

"It's  too  dark  for  me  to  see  your  face,  gentleman," 
said  Mr.  Jupp,  with  great  want  of  tact. 

"And  it's  too  dusk  for  me  to  make  out  yourn  clear," 
said  the  hog-driver,  "but  I  can  guess  your  way  without 
that.  You've  bin  sunk  in  a  submarine  or  blown  up  in  a 
powder  magazine,  or  discharged  from  the  Army,  after 
being  wounded  on  the  battlefield,  or  you've  been  buried 
in  a  coal-mine,  or  chopped  up  in  a  sausage  factory.  Say 
one,  say  all;  I  don't  contradict  you.  But  whatever  tale 
you're  ready  to  pitch,  it  all  comes  to  the  same  thing,  an* 
that's  money  out  of  my  pocket." 

So  completely  had  the  wind  been  taken  out  of  Mr. 
Jupp's  sails  by  this  anticipation  of  his  confidence,  that  he 
perforce  was  silent  as  he  racked  his  invention  for  some- 
thing not  mentioned  by  the  driver  of  the  hog.  Keeping 
pace  with  him  during  the  throes  of  composition,  for  he 
showed  no  disposition  to  stop — 

"I  'ave  a  aged  father,  kind  gentleman,"  he  began  at 
length,  "which  is  now  lying  at  'is  last  garsp." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  the  hog-driver,  plodding  on.  "What's 
'e  garsping  about?  The  disgrace  of  'aving  a  cadger  for 
a  son?" 

"No,  gentleman,"  replied  Mr.  William  Jupp,  drawing 


54  A  Sailor's  Home 

on  facts.  "Pewmonia  is  what's  the  matter  with  'im.  Got 
along  of  a  chill,"  he  added  hastily. 

"Pewmonia  is  on'y  the  crackjaw  name  the  doctors  give 
it,"  said  the  shaggy  man,  as  he  plodded  sturdily  ahead  of 
Mr.  Jupp.  "A  shortness  of  breath,  that's  what  it  really 
is.  As  for  chill,  why,  I  had  it  myself  on'y  two  months 
back,  and  I  never  was  warmer  in  my  life.  Couldn't 
'ardly  bear  the  bed-clothes  on.  If  you're  so  anxious 
about  your  father,  I  don't  see  why  you're  worriting  me. 
Go  an*  see  after  him ;  that'll  give  you  something  to  do." 

"I  should  on'y  be  too  thankful,  gentleman,  if  I  could," 
said  Mr.  William  Jupp,  in  a  whining  tone  which  did 
credit  to  his  powers  of  mimicry.  "But  'e  lives  in  London, 
and  unless  I  can  git  the  railway  fare  to  take  me  there 
from  some  kind  benefactor,  pore  father  may  go  off  with- 
out 'is  last  wish  being  granted." 

"What  is  'is  last  wish  ?"  asked  the  shaggily  coated  man 
curiously. 

"To  see  my  face  again  before  'e  dies,  gentleman,"  said 
Mr.  William  Jupp  dramatically. 

"I  wonder  at  'is  taste,"  commented  the  surly  pig- 
drirer,  "if  it  matches  your  voice  in  any  way.  Well,  you 
won't  git  your  fare  from  me.  If  it  was  your  mother, 
now,  I  might  say  different." 

"But  it  is  me  mother,  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Jupp  with 
cheerful  alacrity.  "When  I  said  father,  it  was  her  I  was 
meaning  all  the  time.  I'm  'er  eldest,  gentleman,  an'  the 
pride  of  'er  loving  'art." 

"It  don't  take  much  to  make  'er  proud,  I  reckin," 
commented  the  fastidious  driver  of  the  pig.  "No,  I've 
got  nothing  for  you.  A  wife  or  a  child,  an'  the  case 
might  'ave  tempted  me  to  relieve  you.  I  don't  say  it 
would,  but  it  might." 

"Bless  you,  kind  gentleman,  for  those  words,"  said  the 
pliable  Mr.  Jupp  rapturously.  "My  pore  wife  and  two 
dear  children  are  laying  at  death's  door  in  the  very  same 


A  Relief  Expedition  55 

place  where  mother  is.  All  struck  down  at  once,  gentle- 
man, by  the  same  crool  complaint." 

"What  did  you  call  the  name  of  it?"  interrupted  the 
man  who  drove  the  hog. 

"Spiral  meningaiters,"  said  Mr.  William  Jupp,  almost 
awed  by  the  fecundity  of  his  own  invention. 

"It's  like  the  pride  and  wastefulness  o'  the  idle  pore  to 
git  themselves  laid  up  with  expensive  complaints  like 
that,"  said  the  shaggy  man  judicially,  "and  what  I  say  is, 
it  didn't  ought  to  be  encouraged.  I'm  sorry  for  you  as 
a  orphan,  and  a  son,  and  a  husband,  and  a  father,  but  I 
should  be  going  agin  my  own  interests  as  a  ratepayer  if 
I  give  you  what  you've  asked  for,  or  half,  or  even  a 
quarter  of  it.  I  should  be  doing  you  no  good  if  I  give 
you  as  much  as  a  penny,  and  therefore  I  won't  give  you 
one.  I " 

The  pig,  the  man  who  drove  it,  and  Mr.  William  Jupp 
had  left  the  village  with  its  single  lamp-post  behind  them, 
and  were  now  travelling  between  high  quickset  hedges 
over  a  road  that  would  have  been  entirely  dark  but  for 
the  glimmering  whiteness  of  the  snow. 

A  more  ideal  scene  for  a  robbery  upon  the  person  of 
an  unsympathetic  middle-aged  man  with,  presumably,  the 
price  of  a  bacon-hog  in  his  trousers  pocket  could  hardly 
have  been  conceived.  A  frosty  wind,  acting  as  accom- 
plice, blew  the  ends  of  the  woollen  muffler  back  over 
either  shoulder  of  the  driver  of  the  pig.  Mr.  William 
Jupp  had  only  to  grasp  them  in  either  hand,  and  pull 
them  violently  apart,  to  interfere,  in  the  profitable  sense, 
with  the  respiration  of  the  wearer.  With  his  heart 
bounding  in  his  throat,  he  did  so. 

"Ug-g'grr'h !"  said  the  victim,  lapsing  heavily  against 
Mr.  Jupp,  with  a  strangled  crow  of  so  suggestive  a 
nature  that  the  blood  of  his  assailant  froze  in  horror. 
"Leggo,  you  scoun Ug-g'grr'h !" 

"I  will  when  I  get  the  price  of  that  hog  you've  sold," 


'56  A  Sailor's  Home 


said  Mr.  William  Jupp,  staggering  under  the  weight  of 
the  sufferer.  "I  don't  want  to  shed  your  blood,  but  I'm 
a  desperate  man,  an'  you'd  better  'and  over."  He  slight- 
ly slackened  the  woollen  comforter.  "Do  you  'ear?" 

"If  I  must,  I  must,"  said  the  victim  hoarsely.  "You've 
near  scragged  me  as  it  is.  "I've  two  breast-pockets  in 
this  overcoat,  an'  the  gold's  in  one  of  'em,  an'  a  fi'pun- 
note  in  the  other.  Put  your  'ands  over  my  shoulders, 
feel  in  both  pockets,  an'  what  you  find,  take." 

Unable  to  repress  a  smile  of  triumph  at  the  easy  and 
rapid  solution  of  an  overwhelming  financial  difficulty, 
Mr.  William  Jupp  let  go  the  ends  of  the  temporary 
woollen  halter  and  obeyed.  Instantly  his  wrists  were 
seized  in  a  rough  and  vice-like  grip,  and  bending  for- 
ward in  spite  of  kicks  and  struggles,  until  the  boots  of 
his  captive  were  raised  several  inches  off  the  ground,  the 
elderly  man  resumed  his  interrupted  pilgrimage. 

"Leggo!"  said  Mr.  William  Jupp  angrily.  Several 
attempts  at  kicking  the  calves  of  his  captor's  legs  had 
failed,  as  had  an  effort  to  bite  the  back  of  his  neck.  With 
his  mouth  full  of  imitation  fur  cap  and  woollen  com- 
forter, he  mumbled :  "Can't  you  take  a  joke  ?" 

"I've  took  a  'ighway  robber,"  said  the  elderly  man,  as 
he  doggedly  progressed  after  the  fashion  of  a  short  coal- 
heaver  carrying  a  tall  sack  of  coals.  "And  I'm  going  to 
keep  'im — leastways,  till  I've  'anded  'im  over  to  the 
proper  authorities.  Then  I  shall  go  after  my  hog,  an'  if 
any  'arm  'as  come  to  'im,  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you."  He 
gave  a  hitch  to  his  burden  and  stepped  out  more  rapidly. 

"You're  not  a  young  man,"  argued  Mr.  Jupp  consider- 
ately, an',  strong  as  you  think  yourself,  you  may  be 
doin'  yourself  a  injury.  Why,  you're  panting  like  a 
steam-engine  this  moment.  Suppose  you  was  to  fall 
down  dead  in  the  road.  What  should  I  feel  like  ?  What- 
ever you  may  think,  I  'ave  a  'art " 

"An  uncommon  small  one  it  must  be,"  said  the  elderly 


A  Relief  Expedition  57, 

man  grimly,  as  he  paused  for  breath  and  then  moved 
resolutely  on  again.  "Don't  you  strain  it  on  my  account. 
We  shall  git  to  the  police-station  in  another  minute  or  so 
as  it  is,  and  if  it  was  a  hour's  journey  off,  I'd  take  you 
there,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  William  Jupp.  What  did 
you  say?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  William  Jupp  junior  had  ut- 
tered a  hollow  groan.  That  a  shaggy  man  encountered 
by  a  wayfarer  after  dusk  upon  an  unknown  road  should 
prove  to  be  the  father  of  the  encounterer,  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  curious  coincidence.  Taking  it  into  consider- 
ation that  the  child  should  have,  previously  to  recog- 
nition, attempted  to  rob  the  parent,  invests  the  coin- 
cidence with  the  buskins  of  tragedy.  But  that  the  son 
of  the  father  thus  outraged  should  have,  only  that 
morning,  started  upon  a  mission  of  filial  duty  to  the 
sick-bed  of  his  progenitor,  throws  over  the  occurrence  a 
glamour  of  weirdness  and  mystery  highly  attractive  to 
students  of  the  occult.  Like  all  men  who  go  down  to 
the  sea  in  ships,  as  foremast  hands,  Mr.  Jupp  junior 
believed  in  ghosts.  There  had  been  a  ghost  on  board 
his  last  ship,  a  phantom  endued  with  materialistic  powers 
so  sufficient  for  the  ejection  of  a  slumbering  forecastle 
hand  from  the  bunk  originally  occupied  by  the  ghost 
when  it  was  not  one,  that  the  sleeping-place  could  only 
be  occuppied  by  a  brawny  six-foot-high  mariner  named 
Bob  Hicks,  who  found  all  the  other  bunks  too  short  for 
the  proper  accommodation  of  his  legs.  And  now  the 
sudden  conviction  that  the  ghost  of  Mr.  William  Jupp 
senior,  suddenly  deceased,  had  his  living  descendant  in 
its  clutches,  caused  goose-flesh  to  develop  all  over  the 
body  of  Mr.  William  Jupp  junior  and  made  his  hair  bris- 
tle underneath  his  cap.  That  the  hog  was  the  ghost  of  a 
hog  seemed  likely  to  faculties  jumbled  by  previous  liba- 
tions of  whisky,  by  over-excitement,  exhaustion  conse- 
quent on  unaccustomed  exertion,  and  the  peculiar  method 


58  A  Sailor's  Home 

of  transit  by  which  he  was  being  conveyed — whither  ? 

Under  the  weltering  confusion  of  his  mind  broke  a  hail 
from  the  middle  road  ahead. 

"Jupp?"  bellowed  a  large  voice  angrily,  "is  that  you?" 

"It  is!"  shouted  the  supposed  ghost  of  Mr.  Jupp 
senior,  of  whose  fleshly  reality  his  elder  son  began  to 
be  now  convinced. 

"It's  too  dark  to  see  you,"  shouted  the  man  of  the 
bellow,  "but  I  guessed  who  it  must  be  comin'  along. 
You  went  up  the  road  while  back  wi'  a  couple  of  hogs, 
an'  there's  one  in  the  station  garden  now,  rootin'  up 
Constabulary  cabbages." 

"Keep  'im  till  I  come,  Constable  'Opkins,  will  you?" 
shouted  the  elder  Mr.  Jupp  cheerfully.  "I'm  bringin' 
something  in  your  line,  which  accounts  for  my  being  a 
bit  be'ind." 

"A  drunken  tramp?"  indifferently  queried  the  con- 
stable, who  now  loomed  out  of  the  shadows  ahead,  lean- 
ing over  a  low  gate  in  some  whitish  palings  by  the  road- 
side and  toying  with  a  bull's-eye  lantern. 

"A  'ighway  prig,"  panted  the  elder  Jupp,  as  with  a 
steaming  forehead  he  stopped  at  the  police-station  gate 
and  submitted  his  captive  to  the  professional  observation 
of  the  constable.  "Tried  to  scrag  me  as  cool  as  you 
please,  just  outside  the  village,  which  he'd  followed  me 
through,  pitchin'  a  tale  as  full  o'  lies  as  a  Christmas  pud- 
din'  is  o'  plums.  And  he'd  have  done  it,  too,  he  would, 
if  I  'adn't  bin  too  quick  an'  sharp  for  'im." 

"Let's  look  at  'im,"  said  the  constable,  bending  over 
the  gate  and  irradiating  with  a  flood  of  blinding  yellow 
light,  smelling  strongly  of  warm  tin  and  hot  oil,  the  re- 
luctant features  of  Mr.  Jupp  junior.  "Ugly-lookin' 
customer,  too,"  he  commented.  "Well,  bring  'im  in, 
since  you've  brought  'im.  I'll  hold  open  the  gate.  'Ere 
Dawlish!"  he  shouted,  and  a  brilliant  oblong  patch  of 
lamplight  appeared  in  the  dark  part  of  the  cottage  police- 


A  Relief  Expedition  59 

station,  throwing  into  vivid  relief  the  form  of  a  younger 
constable.  "We've  another  candidit  for  inside  accom- 
modation— a  'ighway  robber  took  in  the  act.  Look  lively, 
will  you?"  he  added,  and  as  Mr.  Jupp  senior  laboriously 
conveyed  his  speechless  incubus  up  the  slippery  garden 
path  and  over  the  whitewashed  threshold  of  the  police- 
station,  Constable  Hopkins  bolted  the  outer  door  behind 
him,  and  taking  Mr.  William  Jupp  by  the  collar,  strongly 
facilitated  the  clattering  descent  of  his  boots  upon  pas- 
sage bricks.  "Come  in  'ere,"  he  then  directed,  and  open- 
ing the  door  of  a  whitewashed  kitchen  sitting-room, 
turned  in  his  charge,  while  Mr.  Jupp  the  elder,  straight- 
ening his  back  with  difficulty,  followed  upon  his 
heels. 

The  apartment  in  which  the  Expedition  reluctantly 
found  itself  vras  furnished  with  simple  economy,  in  ad- 
dition to  a  varnished  office  desk,  upon  which  a  ledger 
reposed  in  the  company  of  a  pewter  inkpot,  containing 
three  Windsor  chairs,  a  square  table  covered  with  Ameri- 
can cloth,  and  materials  for  a  homely  tea.  The  surprise 
of  the  elder  constable  was  very  great  when,  upon  striding 
to  the  desk,  opening  the  ledger,  dipping  the  pen  in  the 
ink  and  turning  round  to  bid  the  captor  of  the  highway 
robber  go  ahead  with  the  charge,  he  beheld  him  seated 
stiffly  in  a  Windsor  chair  with  fixed  and  bolting  eyes  and 
open  mouth,  staring  blankly  at  the  prisoner,  while  the 
zealous  younger  constable  poured  milk  upon  his  head 
with  a  confused  analogy  between  that  liquid  and  the 
restorative  which  every  pump  is  supposed  to  yield. 

"  'E's  going  to  'ave  a  fit  or  something,"  said  Constable 
Dawlish  in  alarm.  "Look  at  'is  eyes,  the  way  they're 
bolting  out  of  'is  'ead.  An'  the  way  'is  jaw's  fell  down. 
Eppyleptic,  that's  'is  trouble.  What  was  you  saying, 
Mr.  Jupp?" 

"Pinch  me !"  besought  Mr.  Jupp,  looking  wildly  at  the 
constable.  "It'll  be  a  relief  to  wake  up  and  know  I've 


60  A  Sailor's  Home 

bin  dreaming.  I'm  nearly  robbed  an'  murdered  while 
driving  home  a  hog  on  Christmas  Eve,  I  master  the  vil- 
lain single-'anded,  give  'im  over  to  the  police,  an'  find 
'e's  my  own  son  what  I  'aven't  set  eyes  on  for  three 
years." 

"Per'aps  you're  mistaken,"  said  Constable  Hopkins 
pompously.  "Per'aps  there's  something  in  the  frosty  air 
makes  people  see  wrong  about  Christmas-time." 

"I  tell  you  the  scoundrel  pitched  a  tale  a  yard  long 
about  his  poverty  and  his  'unger,  and  'is  sick  father  and 
wife  and  children  what  was  crying  out  to  see  'im  on 
their  death-beds,"  said  Mr.  Jupp,  savagely  glancing  at 
the  disconsolate  figure  of  his  eldest-begotten,  "before  'e 
got  hold  o'  this  here  comforter  and  tried  to  choke  me 
with  it." 

"It  was  my  lark,"  said  Mr.  William  Jupp  mendacious- 
ly. "I  knowed  you  from  the  first  minute  I  set  eyes  on 
you.  And  in  my  gladness  and  joy  at  finding  you  wasn't 
on  a  dying  bed,  as  the  postcard  what  Bessie  got  yesterday 
said  you  was,  I  played  off  a  bit  of  gaff  on  you  an'  acted 
the  giddy  goat.  There's  the  truth,  an'  if  you  don't  be- 
lieve it,  I  pity  you !" 

"I  pity  myself,"  said  Mr.  Jupp  acidly,  "for  'aving 
'elped  to  make  the  world  worse  by  one  more  blooming 
liar.  As  for  this  tale  about  a  postcard,  my  wife  posted 
one  more  than  two  months  ago,  or,  what  means  the 
same  thing,  an'  not  wanting  to  leave  me,  me  being  down 
with  pewmonia,  she  run  out  and  give  the  postcard  to  the 
driver  o'  the  Royal  Mail,  what  runs  reg'lar  betwixt 
Crawlingford  and  London,  to  post  for  her." 

"Then  that's  why  the  postcard  wasn't  delivered  till 
yesterday,"  said  Constable  Hopkins.  "Weedy,  the  man 
what  has  drove  the  Royal  Mail  for  thirty  year,  is  famous 
for  'is  bad  memory.  Why,  he  had  a  kitten  from  my 
wife's  sister  at  Ealing  to  bring  down  to  me,  and  never 
remembered  to  deliver  it,  but  kep'  carryin'  it  backwards 


A  Relief  Expedition 


and  forwards  until  it  was  a  full-grown  cat,  too  big  for 
the  basket.  Nobody  blames  Weedy  ;  he  drove  the  Royal 
Mail  before  the  railway  was  put  down,  an'  he  expects  to 
be  superannuated  in  favour  of  a  motor  van  every  day, 
and  pensioned  off.  He'll  be  missed,  when  he  goes,  by  a 
lot  of  old-fangled  folks  what  are  used  to  his  slow  ways 
of  hurrying  an*  prefer  'ossflesh  to  steam  an'  petrol." 

"I  see  'ow  the  muddle  come  about,  then,"  said  Mr. 
Jupp,  coldly  surveying  his  firstborn.  "Well,  you'd  better 
git  back  'ome  again,  William,  things  being  as  they 
are." 

"I  don't  know  as  me  and  Dawlish  can  part  with  'im 
so  easy,"  said  Constable  Hopkins.  "You've  give  'im 
regularly  in  charge,  and  there  ain't  no  witnesses  to  speak 
for  him." 

"Keep  'im  as  long  as  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Jupp  gener- 
ously, rewinding  his  comforter  in  the  act  to  depart,  as 
Constable  Hopkins  looked  at  the  whitewashed  ceiling, 
and  the  discomfited  Mr.  William  Jupp  shuffled  from  one 
foot  to  another. 

"You're  a  little  hard  on  your  family,  though,  ain't 
you?"  observed  Constable  Dawlish  in  the  ear  of  Mr. 
Jupp. 

"Don't  call  'em  a  family,"  said  that  gentleman  with 
limpid  candour.  "It's  a  brood  of  'ungry  vultures,  not  to 
say  hyenas  and  sharks,  only  waiting  till  I've  drawed  my 
last  breath  to  try  and  pounce  on  my  bit  o'  property.  But 
if  you'll  let  'im  go,  Constable  'Opkins,  I'll  draw  the  line 
in  favour  of  'im  so  far  as  this.  You  come  down  here, 
Bill  Jupp,  not  being  asked,  more  for  your  own  pleasure 
than  for  mine,  an'  you'll  go  back  more  for  my  pleasure 
than  for  yours.  I'll  pay  your  fare  back  to  London,  but 
you'll  go  by  the  Royal  Mail." 

"Why,  it'll  take  the  whole  night  long  and  'arf  of  next 
day  for  the  Mail  to  git  'im  as  far  as  'The  Westbourne 
Arms,'  at  Baling,  where  Weedy  puts  up,"  protested  Con- 


62  A  Sailor's  Home 

stable  Hopkins,  "at  'is  rate  of  going.  However,  please 
yourself." 

"That's  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  said  the  elder  Jupp,  his 
naturally  forbidding  countenance  transformed  by  a 
beaming  smile,  as  with  a  great  deal  of  lumbering  and 
creaking,  a  clumsy  van-shaped  vehicle,  its  glaring  scarlet 
complexion  showing  fitfully  in  the  light  of  two  large 
side-lamps,  and  drawn  by  four  shaggy,  steaming  horses, 
pulled  up  outside  the  gate. 

"I'll  take  the  passenger,  to  oblige  'ee,  for  two  shillin'," 
said  a  quavering  old  man's  voice  replying  to  Constable 
Dawlish's  appeal,  out  of  the  foggy  darkness  enveloping 
the  box-seat. 

"Eighteenpence  is  enough,  Weedy,"  corrected  Mr. 
Jupp,  "and  you  'ave  no  call  to  regard  it  as  a  passenger. 
It's  a  bit  o'  rubbidge  I'm  sendin'  back  to  the  place  it 
came  from.  We're  all  wanted  somewhere,  if  we  only 
knowed  it,"  he  added,  with  subtle  meaning,  as  the 
eighteenpence  changed  hands.  Then  Mr.  William  Jupp 
was  summarily  hoisted  into  the  wooden  shelved  interior 
of  the  van,  the  octogenarian  Weedy  whipped  up  his 
smoking  horses,  and  the  Royal  Mail,  with  its  disappoint- 
ed freight,  lumbered  heavily  away  into  the  frosty  dark- 
ness. 

"Yet  blood's  thicker  than  water,"  said  Constable 
Dawlish. 

"Depends  on  the  kind  o'  water,"  said  Mr.  Jupp  shortly, 
"and  on  the  sort  o'  blood.  Good-night!" 


V 
A  SAILOR'S  HOME 


T7OUR  British  mariners  sat  discontentedly  enjoying 
-T  the  social  advantages  placed  at  their  disposal  by  the 
committee  of  benevolent  persons  responsible  for  the  es- 
tablishment of  a  Sailor's  Home  at  Winksea,  a  small 
seaport  town  which  had  done  without  one  within  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  Alfred  Grimble, 
William  Wimper,  and  another  ordinary  seaman,  the 
origin  of  whose  nickname  of  Biles  was  written  prom- 
inently upon  his  features,  were  seated  on  a  bench  in 
front  of  an  oilcloth-covered  table,  playing  cards  for 
halfpence  with  a  gusto  intensified  by  the  minatory  rule 
against  gambling  flaming  on  the  opposite  wall.  Henry 
Mix,  an  aged  and  bibulous-looking  A.B.,  was  wedged 
in  a  Windsor  chair  before  the  fireplace,  to  which  the 
poker,  with  icy  mistrust,  was  attached  by  a  chain.  The 
room  they  sat  in  was  an  economically  furnished  apart- 
ment sandwiched  off  from  the  teetotal  restaurant  front- 
ing on  the  street  by  a  partition  of  match-boarding  and 
glass.  All  four  seamen  were  smoking  short,  black  pipes, 
with  haughty  indifference  to  the  "Please  use  me!" 
printed  in  large  black  letters  on  the  staring  white  sur- 
face of  the  numerous  crockery  spittoons,  and  three  out 
of  the  four  were  grumbling. 

63 


64  A  Sailor's  Home 

"It's  wickedness,  that's  wot  it  is!"  said  Mr.  Henry 
Mix,  in  a  bitter  tone. 

"Sheer  wickedness!"  agreed  Grimble. 

"Sheer  rank  wickedness!"  added  Mr.  Biles. 

"It's  the  dis'onesty  shown  wot  'urts  me!"  said  Mix, 
removing  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  rolling  his  eye 
round  the  neatly  stencilled  walls  adorned  with  illumin- 
ated texts  and  prints  of  a  patriotic  and  moral  nature. 
"As  I  said  to  that  stout  female  with  the  flyaway  cap 
riggin'  and  the  black  silk  apern " 

"Meanin'  the  Matron  ?"  hinted  Wimper,  a  mild,  fresh- 
coloured  young  seaman,  who  had  created  bitterness  by 
winning  six  times  running. 

"As  I  says  to  the  Matron,"  said  Mix,  "the  C'mitty 
wot  started  this  'ere  benevolent  institootion  lays  them- 
selves open  to  legal  actions  on  the  part  of  British  sailor- 
men  wot  'ave  bin  took  in." 

"Wot!"  ejaculated  Grimble,  with  projecting  eyeballs. 
"When  they  gives  you  free  grub  and  free  drink,  and 
on'y  charges  for  the  beds  ?  'Ow  does  they  take  you  in  ?" 

"By  hadvertising  of  this  'ere  institootion  as  a  Sailor's 
'Ome,  of  course !"  snarled  Mr.  Mix.  "  'Oo  ever  sor  a 
sailor's  'ome — a  real  sailor's  geniwine  'ome,  'owever 
'umble — without  a  drop  o'  licker  in  it  ?" 

Mr.  Grimble  and  Mr.  Biles  rapped  upon  the  table  and 
cried  "'Ear,  'ear!"  Mr.  Wimper  cut  the  highest  card 
in  sarcastic  silence  and  drew  the  bank  again. 

"That's  wot  I  said  to  the  Matron,"  pursued  Mr.  Mix, 
treating  the  mute  appeal  of  the  spittoons  with  profound 
disregard.  "'I  am  a  old  man,'  I  say " 

"And  she  said:  'Then  you're  old  enough  to  know 
better!'"  chuckled  Wimper. 

"  'Ow  did  you  know  that  ?"  queried  Mr.  Mix 
sharply. 

"  'Cos  I  listened  at  the  key'ole  of  'er  office,"  retorted 
the  candid  Mr.  Wimper,  indicating  with  a  jerk  of  his 


A  Sailor's  Home  65) 

thumb  a  glazed  door  inscribed  "Private"  in  large  black 
letters. 

"Did  you  'ear  me  tell  'er  as  'ow  I  was  brought  up  on 
gin  an'  beer?"  asked  Mr.  Mix. 

"I  did,"  sniggered  Mr.  Wimper,  "an*  I  'card  'er  tell 
you  to  go  and  look  at  your  nose  in  the  glass  an*  see  wot 
it  'ad  brought  you  down  to!" 

"'Ear,  'ear!"  said  the  other  ordinary  seaman  incau- 
tiously. 

"I  didn't  quite  ketch  that  remark  o'  yours,  my  lad," 
said  Mr.  Mix  glaring  at  the  other  ordinary  seaman. 

"I  didn't  say  anything,"  recanted  the  offender.  "I 
only  corfed." 

"That's  the  kind  o'  corf  as  gets  people  into  trouble, 
my  man!"  observed  Mr.  Mix,  with  dignity.  "Don't  let 
me  'ear  it  agen." 

The  glazed  door  of  the  Matron's  private  room  opening 
at  this  juncture  shut  up  Mr.  Wimper,  who  was  prepar- 
ing to  cast  more  oil  upon  the  troubled  waters  of  Mr. 
Mix's  dignity,  and  all  four  seamen  rose  respectfully  as 
the  Matron  appeared,  ushering  in  a  plump,  pretty  young 
widow,  attired  in  the  most  stylish  and  becoming  of 
weeds. 

"Oh !  please  don't  move !"  cried  the  lady  visitor.  "You 
all  looked  so  comfortable!"  she  added,  addressing  Mr. 
Mix,  whose  Windsor  chair  adhered  to  his  somewhat 
bulky  person  as  the  shell  of  the  perambulatory  snail. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Honeyblow,"  explained  the  Matron, 
"who  is  one  of  the  principal  lady  members  of  our  Com- 
mittee. Indeed,  but  for  Mrs.  Honeyblow  I  don't  believe 
Winksea  would  have  had  a  Sailor's  Home  at  all." 

"Certainly  not  a  teetotal  one !"  admitted  Mrs.  Honey- 
blow.  "You  remember  how  I  battled  in  the  cause  of 
Temperance !"  she  added,  turning  to  the  Matron.  "Sev- 
eral of  the  committee  held  out  for  malt  liquor  at  meals, 
but  I  convinced  them  all  how  wrong  and  foolish  it  was." 


66  A  Sailor's  Home 

Mr.  Mix  could  not  restrain  a  hollow  groan. 

"So  that's  what  you  have  to  thank  me  for,  all  of  you," 
said  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"We  was  a-thanking  you  afore  you  come  in,  mum," 
said  the  audacious  Mr.  Wimper  smoothly.  "Mr.  Mix — 
'im  as  is  wearin'  the  wooden  bustle" — both  ladies  bit 
their  lips,  and  Mr.  Mix  became  a  rich  imperial  purple — 
"Mr.  Mix  was  wishing  'e  could  do  somethink  to  show  'is 
gratitude  when  you  come  in !" 

"How  sweet  of  him !"  said  Mrs.  Honeyblow  gushingly, 
contemplating  the  saccharine  Mix. 

"Now  you  must  all  shake  hands  with  me !"  she  added, 
quite  in  a  flutter  of  patronage.  "My  dear  husband  was 
a  sailor  too.  Perhaps  some  of  you  might  even  have 
sailed  with  him — Captain  Honeyblow,  of  the  schooner 
Smiling  Jane.  Oh !  there  never  was  a  man  like  him — 
never!"  Mrs.  Honeyblow  sank  into  a  chair,  and  taking 
out  a  cambric  handkerchief  with  a  two-inch  mourning 
border,  prepared  to  cry. 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  Matron,  respectfully  patting 
her  upon  the  shoulder.  "You'll  upset  yourself,  you  know 
you  will!" 

"Oh,  if  you'd  ever  known  him  or  even  seen  him,  you 
wouldn't  wonder  at  my  fretting  so !"  gurgled  Mrs.  Honey- 
blow.  "Oh!  I  can't  believe  he's  really  dead — I  can't! 
He's  sailing  the  wide  ocean  somewhere,  alive  and  well,  I 
feel  he  is.  Why  should  he  vanish  like  that?  I  made 
enquiries  everywhere,  I  advertised,  I  offered  fifty  pounds 
— a  hundred — to  anybody  who  could  help  me  to  a  clue" 
— the  four  seamen  became  genuinely  interested — "but  it 
was  all  no  use,  and  so  a  year  after  he  went — it's  two 
years  since  I  lost  him — I  had  his  will  proved — poor  dear, 
everything  was  left  to  me ! — and  went  into  weeds.  And 
I  shall  have  to  wear  'em,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  "for 
six  months  more !" 

"Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  of  the  schooner    Smiling    Jane," 


A  Sailor's  Home  67 

ruminated  Mr.  Mix,  whom  the  reference  to  a  reward  had 
stimulated  to  intellectual  activity.  "Vanished — two  years 
ago.  Wot  sort  o'  man  was  'e  ?" 

"Oh,  so  good  and  noble!  One  of  the  best — husbands 
— that  ever  lived!"  gurgled  the  widow. 

"  'Ad  'e  murdered  ennybody  ?"  interrogated  Mr.  Mix. 

"Murdered!  He  wouldn't  have  killed  a  fly!"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Honey  blow  indignantly. 

"But  'e  might  'ave  killed  a  sailorman.  I've  knowed 
skippers  do  that — and  dror  the  line  at  flies,"  said  Mr. 
Mix,  with  unconscious  irony.  "  'Ad  'e  robbed  ennybody, 
lady?" 

"How  dare  you  insinuate  such  a  thing !"  exclaimed  the 
widow,  with  flaming  cheeks. 

"I'm  tryin'  to  account  for  'is  vanishing  away,  lady," 
said  Mr.  Mix  patiently.  "Per'aps  'e  was  a  bit  touched 
in  the  upper  storey?"  he  suggested  after  a  ruminating 
pause. 

"Mad!"  screamed  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "My  Daniel! 
Mad !  There  never  was  a  clearer-minded  man !" 

"Wot  was  'e  like,  lady,  in  'is  looks  ?"  pursued  Mr.  Mix, 
as  Mrs.  Honeyblow  put  away  her  handkerchief  and  stif- 
fened visibly. 

"A  fine-looking,  regular-featured  man,  with  blue  eyes, 
fair  complexion,  and  auburn  hair  and  beard,"  said  the 
Matron. 

"If  you  'appened  to  'ave  a  chart  of  'im  'andy 
lady ?"  insinuated  Mr.  Mix. 

"I've  a  coloured  photograph  here,"  said  the  widow, 
opening  a  jet  locket  as  large  as  the  bowl  of  a  soup-ladle. 
She  detached  it  from  the  chain  and  diffidently  placed  it 
in  the  horny  palm  of  the  aged  seaman. 

"Short,  stoutish,  red-faced,  carroty  'air  and  beard," 
enumerated  Mr.  Mix,  scanning  the  portrait  with  the  eye 
of  a  connoisseur.  "I've  seen  'underds  of  men  like  that. 
'Aven't  you,  Grimble?" 


68  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Thousands,"  said  Mr.  Grimble,  as  his  senior  passed 
the  locket  round. 

"Millions !"  asseverated  Mr.  Biles. 

"An*  to  think  o'  the  money  as  might  'ave  bin  'onestly 
earned  by  droppin'  a  runnin'  noose  round  the  neck  o' 
any  one  of  'em  an*  towin'  of  'im  'ome!"  hinted  Mr. 
Wimper  ironically.  "Wy,  it's  enough  to  make  a  man 
thirsty,  ain't  it?"  He  relieved  Mr.  Biles  of  the  locket 
without  ceremony,  polished  the  glass  upon  his  sleeve 
with  an  air  that  was  palpably  meant  to  be  offensive,  and 
perused  the  lineaments  portrayed  within  with  a  retro- 
spective air.  "So  that  was  Cap'n  Honeyblow — Cap'n 
Daniel  Honeyblow,  of  the  Smiling  Jane,"  he  said  at 
length.  "I  can't  say  I've  seen  millions  of  men  just  like 
'im — nor  thousands,  nor  yet  'undereds,  but  I  knew  one. 
He  shipped  as  cook  on  the  Hope  of  Harwich  two  years 
ago,  for  a  v'yage  to  Port  o'  St.  John's,  Newfoun'land. 
We  was  carryin'  sheet  tin  an'  solder  in  boxes,  an'  the 
skipper  meant  to  take  a  cargo  of  canned  lobsters  back. 
Queerly  enough,  this  'ere  man,  wot  shipped  as  cook  for 
the  v'yage,  was  a  Winksea  man.  Ben  Bliss  'is  name  was  ; 
an'  if  the  nose  in  this  'ere  picture  was  redder,  an'  the 
beard  an*  'air  likewise,  leavin'  out  the  difference  in  clo'es, 
Cap'n  Honeyblow  and  Ben  Bliss  might  'ave  bin 
brothers." 

"Don't  mind  'im,  lady,"  entreated  Mr.  Mix,  as  Mrs. 
Honeyblow  wiped  away  the  newly  started  tear.  "  'E's 
only  talkin*  for  the  sake  o'  sayin'  somethin'.  It's  'is 
ignorant  way,  that's  all." 

"Oh,  but  he  speaks  the  truth,  indeed  he  does,"  said 
Mrs.  Honeyblow  earnestly.  "Ben  Bliss  was  well  known 
to  me  and  Captain  Honeyblow,  and,  indeed,  to  everyone 
in  Winksea,  and  his  likeness  to  my  poor  dear  husband 
was  really  very  strong.  His  mother  did  the  washing  for 
the  Captain's  family,  the  two  boys  were  playfellows  and 
friends,  allowing  for  the  difference  in  station,  and  I've 


A  Sailor's  Home 


often  and  often  heard  my  dear  husband  tell  how  he  used 
to  borrow  Ben's  clothes  when  he  wanted  to  do  anything 
he  was  sure  to  be  whipped  for.  He  had  such  a  sense  of 
humour!"  Mrs.  Honeyblow  brought  out  the  black- 
bordered  handkerchief  again.  "And  now  they're  both 
gone!"  she  whimpered,  "both  go-ne!" 

"Both?"  echoed  Mr.  Mix,  with  interrogative  eyebrows. 

"Ben  Bliss  'e  walked  overboard  in  'is  stockin'  feet  on 
the  eight  day  out,"  explained  Mr.  Wimper.  "  'E  'ad 
been  drinkin'  'eavy  since  'e  come  aboard,  an*  the  cap'n 
'ad  'urt  'is  feelin's  crool.  Called  'im  a  dirty  pig  for 
sendin'  up  a  biled  fowl  to  the  cabin  table  with  the  inside 
in  an'  the  feathers  on ;  an'  Ben  said  as  bein'  called  dirty 
by  such  a  dirty  man  'ad  took  away  all  'is  pleasure  in  life." 

"So  'e  made  away  with  'isself — for  a  little  thing  like 
that?"  commented  Mr.  Mix  incredulously. 

"C'mitted  sooicide !"  said  Mr.  Grimble,  with  a  sniff  of 
contempt. 

"Not  exactly,"  said  the  narrator.  "  'E  finished  all  the 
rum  without  offerin'  a  drop  to  anybody,  because  he  said 
it  was  p'ison ;  and  then  'e  took  the  only  bit  o'  soap  be- 
longin'  to  the  ship's  comp'ny — it  was  a  salt  water  patent 
kind,  an'  kep'  in  the  fo'c'sle  as  a  cur'osity — an'  went 
overboard  to  'ave  a  refreshin'  wash,  as  'e  said." 

"In  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic!  And  couldn't  some- 
body have  stopped  him?"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"  'E  'ad  the  galley  meat-chopper,  besides  the  soap," 
said  Mr.  Wimper  pithily ;  "the  cap'n  went  'arf  mad  over 
it." 

"Over  losing  him!"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"Over  losing  the  chopper!"  returned  Mr.  Wimper 
simply. 

"His  poor  wife  lives  in  Winksea  still!"  said  Mrs. 
Honeyblow.  "She  used  to  be  our  parlourmaid  at  home 
before  I  married  Captain  Honeyblow,  and  when  my 
husband  was  away  on  his  last  voyage  but  one,  she  got 


70  A  Sailor's  Home 

married  to  Ben.  Ben  went  away  to  sea  a  week  before 
that  dreadful  day  when  the  Captain  disappeared,  and 
three  months  later  she  got  the  news  of  his  being  drowned. 
She  came  to  see  me  after  she'd  drawn  her  half-pay  and 
clothes-money,  looking  so  nice  in  her  neat  mourning. 
Said  it  was  the  first  new  dress  Ben  had  ever  bought  her. 
She  does  the  washing  for  the  Home  now,  and  is  getting 
along  quite  comfortably.  Here  she  is!"  continued  Mrs. 
Honeyblow,  looking  through  the  glass  partition  that  sep- 
arated the  semi-private  apartment  in  which  she  stood 
from  the  teetotal  restaurant  which  occupied  the  ground- 
floor  front,  as  a  covered  van  stopped  at  the  door,  and  a 
buxom,  tidy  young  woman  came  through  the  shop,  carry- 
ing one  end  of 'a  bulky  clothes-basket — the  other  moiety 
of  which  was  supported  by  a  broad-shouldered,  middle- 
aged,  somewhat  sheepish-looking  man.  "Dear  Mrs. 
Mudge,  do  ask  her  to  step  in  here." 

"She  must,"  said  the  Matron.  "We  always  go  over 
the  clean  linen  in  my  room,  and  three  shirts  were 
scorched  to  cinders  only  last  week.  Mrs.  Bliss,"  she 
continued,  as  the  swing-door  was  bumped  open  and  the 
buxom  young  woman  appeared,  closely  followed  by  the 
greater  part  of  the  clothes-basket,  "you  have  come  just 
as  we  were  talking  about  you.  This  young  man" — she 
affably  indicated  Mr.  Wimper — "has  some  news  of  your 
poor  husband,  which  you  might  like  to  hear." 

Mrs.  Bliss,  before  the  conclusion  of  its  sentence,  had 
lost  the  best  part  of  her  colour.  "It's  not  that  he  ain't 
dead,  is  it,  ma'am?"  she  gasped  entreatingly,  letting  go 
of  her  end  of  the  basket  and  placing  her  hand  upon  her 
heart.  "Oh,  please,  'm,  it's  not  that  he's  not  dead?" 

"No  such  good  fortune,  my  poor  Hannah,"  said  Mrs. 
Honeyblow  kindly.  "This  young  man" — Mr.  Wimper 
touched  his  brow — "was  one  of  the  crew  of  the  Hope  of 
Harwich,  and  saw  poor  Ben  go  overboard,  that's  all." 

"Sor  'im  sink?"  interrogated  the  widow  anxiously. 


A  Sailor's  Home  71 

"Saw  'm  sink,"  said  Mr.  Wimper,  melted  by  the  urgent 
appeal  of  Mrs.  Bliss's  eyes,  "like  a  stone." 

Mrs.  Bliss  wiped  her  face,  to  which  the  colour  had 
returned,  and  breathed  more  freely.  It  appeared  to  Mr. 
Wimper,  who  was  an  observer,  that  the  square  middle- 
aged  man  who  had  followed  the  other  end  of  the  clothes- 
basket  into  the  room  breathed  more  freely  also  and  per- 
spired less. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  last  time  I  sor  him!"  Mr. 
Bliss's  relict  observed  in  a  pleasant  tone  of  retrospection. 
"  'E  come  suddenly  up  from  the  'arbour  to  tell  me  that 
a  foreign-going  barque  named  the  Hope  of  Harwich 
wanted  a  cook,  and  that  he'd  shipped  for  the  v'yage,  and 
that  I  was  to  give  'is  dog  the  fried  steak  'e'd  ordered  for 
supper — a  vicious,  greedy  thing  it  was — died  sudden  soon 
after  poor  Ben  went.  At  the  garden  gate  'e  stopped  an' 
'Give  us  a  kiss,  old  gal!'  he  says.  So  I  kuss  'im,"  said 
Mrs.  Bliss,  who  in  moments  of  emotion  or  excitement 
was  wont  to  enrich  her  native  verbs  with  new  tenses, 
"an*  'e  kuss  me.  Little  did  I  think  we  kass  for  the  last 
time." 

All  three  women  sighed,  and  Mr.  Mix  courted  popular- 
ity to  the  extent  of  throwing  in  a  groan. 

"We  were  just  speaking  of  the  wonderful  likeness 
between  poor  Ben  and  poor  Captain  Honeyblow,  Han- 
nah," explained  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  reattaching  the  jet 
locket  to  her  chain,  "when  you  came  in." 

"It's  wonderful!"  said  Mr.  Wimper,  whose  easily- 
evoked  admiration  was  now  transferred  from  the  lady 
to  the  laundress. 

"You  may  well  say  so!"  agreed  Mrs.  Bliss.  "Before 
Mrs.  Honeyblow  married  the  Cap'n,  when  he  came  visit- 
ing at  our  'ouse — me  being  then  in  service  with  Mrs. 
Honeyblow's  ma  as  cook-general,  and  walking  out  with 
Ben — I  couldn't  'ardly  persuade  myself,  on  coming  sud- 
denly into  the  parlour  with  the  cloth  an'  catchin'  the 


72  A  Sailor's  Home 


couple  courting,  as  wot  Miss  'Arriet  wasn't  taking  liber- 
ties with  my  young  man!" 

Mr.  Wimper  laughed  uproariously,  and  suddenly  de- 
sisted under  the  chilly  discouragement  of  Mrs.  Honey- 
blow's  glance. 

"An*  what  made  the  likeness  more  complete,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Bliss,  "was  that  Ben  havin'  tattooed  a  'art  and  a 
*H*  on  the  back  of  'is  right  'and  for  'Annah — him  being 
a  beautiful  worker  in  that  way — the  Captain  made  'im 
tattoo  a  'H'  and  a  'art  on  'is,  'Arriet  an'  'Annah  both 
beginnin'  with  the  same  letter.  Ah,  dear  me!  Well, 
well !" 

Mrs.  Honeyblow  echoed  the  laundress's  sigh,  and  the 
square  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  clothes-basket  shuffled 
his  feet  in  an  embarrassed  way. 

"So  you  have  found  somebody  to  help  you  with  the 
the  basket,  Mrs.  Bliss?"  said  the  Matron  affably,  includ- 
ing embarrassed  square  man  in  a  gracious  smile. 

"It's  Mr.  Limbird,  as  lives  next  door,"  explained  the 
laundress,  with  a  perceptibly  heightened  colour.  "Being 
a  wharf-watchman,  an'  only  on  duty  at  night,  he's  free 
to  lend  me  a  friendly  'and  in  the  day,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I'd  do  without  'is  kindness,  especially  when  it  comes 
to  wringin'  an'  manglin' — I  don't,  indeed !" 

"Mr.  Limbird  is  a  single  man,  I  presume?"  interro- 
gated the  Matron,  perceptibly  deepening  the  tint  of 
Limbird's  countenance  as  she  fixed  him  with  her  glance. 

"Widower!"  explained  Mr.  Limbird,  in  a  voice  that 
apparently  proceeded  from  the  soles  of  his  boots. 

"Would  you  care  to  inspect  the  dormitories  before  you 
go?"  inquired  the  Matron  of  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  after  a 
slight  and  embarrassing  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Bliss 
fanned  herself  with  the  washing-book,  and  Mr.  Limbird 
looked  at  nothing  in  particular  with  great  attention. 

"If  you  please,"  assented  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

But  just  then  a  knock  came  at  the  door ;  it  opened,  and 


A.  Sailor's  Home  73 

the  brass-buttoned  male  functionary  who  discharged  the 
duties  of  janitor  and  presided  over  the  booking-office 
where  the  bed-tickets  were  sold,  said  to  the  Matron, 
touching  his  cap: 

"Shipwrecked  man  and  boy,  'm,  just  come  in!  Quite 
destitute  without  a  rag  o'  dunnage  or  a  halfpenny  be- 
tween 'em !" 

"Oh!  how  interesting!"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  clasp- 
ing her  hands.  "Do  let  me  see  them !  Where  are  they  ?" 

"They're  at  one  o'  the  tables  in  the  restyrong,"  said 
the  janitor  bitterly,  "  'aving  cocoa  and  sausage-rolls." 

"But  we  do  not  give  food  gratis  unless  beds  have  been 
paid  for,"  said  the  Matron  rebukingly;  "and  you  tell  me 
both  the  man  and  boy " 

"The  boy  give  the  order,"  said  the  injured  janitor; 
"the  cheeky  little "  He  hesitated  a  second  and  sub- 
stituted "imp."  "I  don't  know  'ow  Miss  Higgins  come 
to  serve  'em.  Don't  blame  me!" 

"Where  are  they  sitting?"  asked  Mrs.  Bliss,  who  was 
not  free  from  the  failing  of  her  sex. 

"Oh,  where?"  entreated  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "Do  point 
them  out,  please!" 

"You  can  see  'em  plain  'ere,"  said  the  janitor,  indicat- 
ing the  glazed  partition.  "It's  the  second  table  between 
this  and  the  door.  Not  that  they're  much  to  look  at. 
The  boy  is  like  every  other  boy,  only  dirtier  and  rag- 
geder,  and  impudenter,  and  the  man  is  a  shortish, 
stoutish  red-'aired,  red-bearded  seaman  'bout  forty  years 
of  age."  He  followed  the  Matron  from  the  room,  as 
Mrs.  Honeyblow  and  Mrs.  Bliss,  impelled  by  a  common 
impulse,  ran  to  the  partition,  only  to  find  the  view  into 
the  shop  obscured  by  the  bodies  of  Mr.  Wimper  and  his 
three  fellow-mariners,  who  with  countenances  flattened 
against  the  glass  were  breathing  it  dim  in  the  effort  to 
concentrate  their  united  observation  on  a  common  point 
of  interest  outside.  Recalled  to  a  sense  of  propriety  by 


74  A  Sailor's  Home 

the  indignant  pokes  of  the  doorkeeper,  the  four  seamen 
at  length  detached  themselves,  and,  wheeling  round,  pre- 
sented to  the  company  four  countenances  deeply  flushed 
with  excitement,  and  eight  circular  and  staring  eyes. 

"Don't  you  scream,  lady,  at  wot  I'm  goin  to  tell  you," 
warned  Mr.  Mix,  fending  off  the  closer  approaches  of 
Mrs.  Honeyblow  to  the  partition  with  affectionately  ex- 
tended arms.  "An*  wotever  you  do,  remember  I  was  the 
fust  to  reckernise  'im  an*  break  the  good  noos " 

"If  you've  anything  the  matter  with  your  'art,  mum," 
cautioned  Mr.  Wimper,  addressing  Mrs.  Bliss,  "don't 
you  look  through  there  too  sudden.  I've  knowed  parties 
paralysed  before  now  through  gettin'  sudden  shocks " 

"Oh,  why?  What  do  you  mean?"  panted  both  the 
widows. 

"I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Wimper,  breaking  it  gently,  "as 
your  'usband  'as  come  'ome!" 

Mrs.  Honeyblow  and  Mrs.  Bliss  screamed  in  concert: 
"What!" 

"Your  'usband,  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  o'  the  Smiling  Jane," 
said  Mr.  Mix  doggedly. 

"Your  'usband,  Ben  Bliss,  late  cook  o'  the  }0pe  of 
Harwich,"  asseverated  Mr.  Wimper  firmly. 

The  open  mouths  of  Mrs.  Honeyblow  and  Mrs.  Bliss 
gave  forth  no  sound,  but  their  circular  eyes  put  the  inter- 
rogation. "Where?" 

"  'E  is  now  a-setting  in  the  front  shop,"  said  Mr.  Mix. 

"The  resfyrong,"  corrected  Mr.  Wimper. 

"With  a  ragged  boy,  'aving  cocoa  and  sossidge-rolls." 

"They  'ave  'ad  'em,"  Mr.  Wimper  amended.  "Look 
for  yourself  if  you  think  I'm  a  liar !"  He  made  way. 

"She  don't  waste  'er  time  thinkin'  that,"  sneered  Mr. 
Mix,  as  both  the  panting,  tearful  women  glued  their  agi- 
tated features  against  the  glass  partition.  "She  knows 
it !  Look  at  'er  shakin'  'er  'ead." 

"'Ear  wot   she's   sayin'!"     And   indeed    Mrs.   Bliss 


A!  Sailor's  Home  751 

seemed  to  shrink  from  grasping  at  the  suggested  joy. 

"It's  not  Ben  come  back;  it  ain't  never!"  she  gasped, 
moistly  clutching  the  trembling  arm  of  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 
"It's  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  your  'usband,  come  back  in  dis- 
guise. I  could  swear  to  'im  anywhere!" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  gurgled  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "It's  Bliss. 
Nobody  could  mistake  him!  Nobody!" 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other's  pale  faces.  The 
door  opened  and  closed  behind  the  retreating  forms  of 
the  four  seamen,  who  were  unwilling  to  let  a  valuable 
opportunity  slip. 

"Oh,  don't  think  I  grudge  you  your  happiness!" 
choked  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "There!  The  Matron's  talk- 
ing to  him.  She's  bringing  him  this  way.  He's  a 
stranger  to  her,  of  course,  she  being  quite  new  to  Wink- 
sea.  Oh!  in  your  place  I  should  go  wild  with  joy!  Why 

don't  you "  Her  eyes,  following  the  direction  of 

Mrs.  Bliss's,  reverted  to  the  stiff,  upright  figure  of  the 
square-headed  Mr.  Limbird,  propped  up  with  vacant 
gaze  and  open  mouth,  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  "What 
can  be  the  reason  you " 

Mrs.  Honeyblow  stopped  suddenly,  overwhelmed  by 
the  conviction  that  the  reason  was  leaning  against  the 
wall.  Her  dazed  glance  swirled  round  to  Mrs.  Bliss, 
whose  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  door,  and  who,  as 
footsteps  sounded  and  stopped  outside,  sank  slowly  down 
upon  the  basket  of  newly  washed  clothes.  The  door- 
handle rattled  and  the  door  swung  slowly  back,  admit- 
ting the  scarecrow  figures  of  the  two  mariners  whose 
previous  conversation  we  retail  in  the  next  chapter. 

II 

t 

"Four  sossidge-rolls  an'  two  pints  o'  cocoa,  an'  look 
sharp  about  it !"  ordered  Tommy,  swinging  his  legs  over 
the  verge  of  a  rather  tall  chair.  He  was  a  small,  meagre, 


,76  A  Sailor's  Home 

bright-eyed  boy  of  twelve,  economically  clothed  in  the 
upper  portion  of  an  out-sized  pair  of  seamen's  trousers. 
Buttons  and  string  coyly  confined  the  garment  round 
his  neck,  his  lean  and,  I  grieve  to  add,  unwashed  arms 
emerged  from  the  flapped  apertures  originally  communi- 
cating with  the  pockets,  and  the  remains  of  a  red  woollen 
comforter  tied  about  his  waist,  prudishly  checked  the 
straying  tendencies  of  his  sole  garment. 

"An*  look  sharp  about  it!"  repeated  Tommy. 

"You  know  we  haven't  any  money,  don't  you?" 
whispered  the  more  aged  and  less  confident  of  the  two 
distressed  mariners,  bending  over  the  table  to  reach  his 
young  companion's  ear. 

"O*  course !"  said  Tommy,  taking  a  huge  circular  bite 
out  of  the  first  sausage-roll.  "An'  so  ort  she,  if  she's  a 
'ead  on  'er,"  he  added,  referring  to  the  young  person 
who  had  served  them.  "Didn't  yer  'ear  me  tell  'er  we 
was  shipwrecked  sailormen,  an  'ow  can  shipwrecked 
sailormen  'ave  money?" 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  the  stout,  red-bearded 
mariner.  "What  did  you  tell  the  young  woman  we  were 
shipwrecked  for,  you  lying,  young — rascal?" 

"  'Cos  if  I'd  pitched  *er  the  truth,  an'  said  we  was  two 
bloomin*  stowaways  wot  'ad  worked  our  passage  'ome 
bn  the  'Alvfax  Lass  as  ship's  cook  and  extra  boy,  we'd 
'ave  got  nothin',"  said  Tommy,  with  a  contemptuous 
sniff,  "except  the  chuck  direct  instead  of  'avin'  it  by-an'- 
by.  Why  don't  yer  stow  yer  grub  before  they  takes  it 
away?  Must  I  eat  for  yer  as  well  as  cadge?"  The  con- 
tempt of  the  youth's  tone  and  expression  must  have  stim- 
ulated the  appetite  as  well  as  the  courage  of  the  stout, 
red-bearded  seaman,  for  he  fell  ravenously  upon  the 
food,  which  rapidly  vanished  under  their  united  exer- 
tions. 

"Seems  odd  that  brig  what  we  stowed  away  aboard  at 
'Alifax  should  'ave  bin  bound  'ome  to  this  port,"  re- 


A!  Sailor's  Home  77j' 

marked  the  boy,  after  an  unbroken  period  of  mastication. 

"Why?"  asked  the  red-bearded  seaman,  opening  two 
very  round,  light  blue  eyes. 

"  'Cos  yer  don't  know  nothink  about  it,"  shrilled  Tom- 
my derisively.  "Never  was  born  'ere,  never  was  'pren- 
ticed  'ere,  never  got  married  'ere,  never  run  away  from 
yer  wife  and  left  'er  'ere  two  years  ago  come  next  week. 
That's  w'y!" 

"Shut  up,  confound  you!"  pleaded  the  stout  seaman, 
with  an  agonised  glance  round.  "Somebody  '11  hear." 

"Yessir !"  said  Tommy  with  a  fiendish  obsequiousness. 

"Don't  call  me  'sir/  snapped  the  red-haired  seaman. 

"Cap'n,  then !"  amended  Tommy  viciously. 

"How  many  times  must  I  tell  you,  you  little  demon," 
said  the  irritated  seaman,  "that  my  name's  Ben  Bliss,  and 
that  my  rating  is  ship's  cook  ?" 

"Yer  ain't  no  ship's  cook,"  said  Tommy  with  convic- 
tion, shaking  his  head.  "I  knowed  that  afore  we'd  bin 
two  days  aboard  of  the  'All-fax  Lass" 

"What  made  you  think  it?"  asked  the  other  sourly. 

"The  cookin',"  said  the  boy  shortly.  "  'Sides  which, 
yer  told  me  yerself  yer  was  a  ship's  cap'n  in  disguise." 

"I  must  have  been  dreaming  when  I  told  you  that," 
mumbled  the  other,  looking  hard  at  the  opposite  wall. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  lad,"  said  the  boy  derisively. 

"Don't  you  call  me  your  lad!"  snapped  the  stout 
seaman. 

"Nossir!"  said  Tommy  respectfully. 

"  'Ben*  you  can  call  me,  and  if  you  want  to  be  respect- 
ful, 'Mr.  Bliss'  '11  do,"  said  the  other.  "And  coming  to 
names — what's  yours?" 

"Tommy,"  said  Tommy. 

"Tommy  what?"  continued  the  questioner. 

"Tommy  Nott,"  replied  the  questioned. 

"And  you  ran  away  from  your  mother's  shop  at  Dept- 
ford  because " 


7 8  A  Sailor's  Home 

"  'Cos  my  last  new  f arver  whopped  me !"  said  Tommy. 
"I  told  yer  that  before.  After  I  saved  yer  life,  I  did !" 

"Saved  my  life !"  said  the  stout  seaman  with  wounding 
incredulity;  "a  measly  little  shaver  like  you,  that  had 
been  loafing  about  the  quays  for  weeks  and  living  on 
kicks  and  potato-peels!" 

"I  was  doin'  the  same  as  yerself,  if  it  comes  to  that," 
sniffed  the  boy  defiantly. 

"Living  on  kicks  and  potato-peels?"  asked  the  stout 
seaman  with  ominous  distinctness,  while  his  right  hand 
rose  and  hovered  fondly  in  the  vicinity  of  the  boy's  ear. 

"Lookin'  for  a  ship,"  amended  Tommy,  leaning  deli- 
cately aside,  "an'  gettin'  warned  off  by  cap'ns  an'  mates. 
An'  stewards  an'  carpenters,"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
"  'cos  I'd  left  my  dress  clo'es  be'ind  where  I  come  from, 
an'  they  said  they  didn't  want  no  sich  scarecrows  aboard." 

"Did  I  get  warned  off?"  pressed  the  stout  seaman  in 
an  unpleasant  tone.  "Did  I  ?  Did  they  call  me  a  scare- 
crow ?  Think  a  bit,  if  you  can't  remember." 

The  eyes  of  Tommy  Nott  made  a  rapid  inventory  of 
the  stout  seaman's  wardrobe,  which  comprised  a  scarlet 
guernsey  trimmed  with  tar  and  lamp-oil,  an  old  and 
highly  polished  pair  of  railway  porter's  corduroy  trousers, 
a  Glengarry  cap  with  one  tail,  and  the  uppers  of  a  pair  of 
American  rubber  boots. 

"It  was  worse  than  that,"  said  Tommy  simply.  "They 
didn't  call  me  a  bloomin'  Salvation  slush-bucketer. 
Nor " 

"You've  got  a  good  memory,  haven't  you,  my  boy?" 
said  the  stout  seaman,  trying  to  smile.  "You  heard  me 
explain  to  those  rude,  uncivil  men  how  I  came  to  lack 
the  necessities  of  life.  You  heard " 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  Tommy  firmly.  "They  never 
waited  to  'ear.  An'  that's  'ow  yer  come  to  miss  the  gang- 
way an'  slip  between  the  ship's  side  an'  the  basin,  an'  'ow 
I  come  to  save  yer  life." 


A  Sailor's  Home  79 

The  stout  seaman  snorted  indignantly. 

"I  dived  after  yer !"  asserted  Tommy. 

"Fell  after  me,  you  mean!"  said  his  elder. 

"An*  pulled  yer  out,"  said  Tommy. 

"Pulled  me  under,"  contradicted  the  stout  seaman. 

"An*  afterwards,  when  yer'd  finished  the  bottle  o' 
whisky  the  quay-officer  give  yer  to  stop  us  from  takin' 
cold "  continued  Tommy. 

"Whisky's  poison  to  young  boys,"  stated  the  other 
hastily.  "It  would  have  been  inhumane  to  let  you  drink 
any." 

"Yer  told  me  as  'ow  I'd  saved  the  life  of  the  cap'n  of 
a  merchanter  in  disguise,  an'  I  should  never  want  while 
I  lived." 

"S'sh!  You  see  what  bad  whisky  it  must  have  been 
to  make  me  talk  such  a  lot  of  rubbish,"  said  the  red- 
bearded  seaman,  breaking  out  into  a  perspiration.  "And 
how  many  times  must  I  tell  you  not  to  talk  so  loud? 
What  do  you  think  would  happen  if  anybody  heard  you  ?" 

"I  should  find  out  whether  it  was  the  truth  or  the 
whisky,"  said  Tommy.  "But  it's  the  truth.  I've  seed 
yer  wife !" 

"What?"  gasped  the  stout  seaman,  undergoing  a  lob- 
ster-like change  of  hue. 

"I  sor  yer  wife  last  night,"  said  Tommy,  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  the  scarlet  countenance  of  the  middle-aged  seaman, 
"an'  yer  sor  her,  too.  It  was  when  yer  lost  me  an'  went 
for  a  walk  by  yerself  in  the  dark." 

"Did  I?"  said  the  other  blankly. 

"Not  by  yerself,"  said  Tommy,  "  'cos  I  come,  too. 
She — yer  wife,  I  mean — lives  in  a  nice  house  and  garden 
'bout  a  mile  outside  the  town.  I  sor  yer  sneak  in  at  the 
gate  'thout  ringin'  the  bell,  an'  peep  in  through  a  crack 
o'  the  parler  winder-blind.  I  'ad  a  peep  myself  afore  I 
come  away,  an'  I'm  s'prised  at  yer." 

"Why?"  muttered  his  abashed  companion. 


8o  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Leavin*  sich  a  nice  young  woman  all  alone  by  herself," 
said  Tommy  with  severity.  "She  'ad  a  black  dress  on, 
an*  a  white  thing  on  her  'ead." 

'  vVidow's  cap,"  said  the  stout  man  shortly. 

"An*  I  sor  'er  weddin'-ring  shine  when  she  put  yer 
'an'kerchief  up  to  'er  eyes." 

"Crying?"  jerked  out  the  other,  turning  purple. 

"Larfin',"  said  Tommy.  "She  'ad  one  o'  them  funny 
picture  papers  readin',  an'  she  larfed  over  somethin'  in  it 
till  she  cried." 

"You  see  what  women  are,"  said  the  other,  after  a 
misogynistical  pause.  "Don't  you  ever  marry  one  of  'em, 
my  boy,  if  you  don't  want  to  spoil  your  life.  Look  at 
me!" 

"I  did,  when  we  got  out  o'  the  lanes  to  where  the  lamp- 
posts was,"  said  Tommy,  "an'  I  couldn't  think  'ow  she 
could." 

"Could  what?"  snapped  his  companion. 

"Look  at  yer,"  said  Tommy  with  candour,  "if  wot  yer 
said  at  'Alifax  was  true." 

"Don't  you  be  impudent,"  said  the  stout  seaman,  in 
a  choking  voice ;  "I've  warned  you  before." 

"All  right,  my  fine  feller,"  said  Tommy  cheerfully, 
scraping  the  sugar  and  cocoa-grounds  from  the  bottom  of 
his  cup. 

"Don't  call  me  your  fine  fellow !"  said  the  other,  clench- 
ing his  fist. 

"Ave,  aye,  sir!"  said  Tommy  smartly. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  I  walked  out  to  Mrs.  Honeyblow's 
house  last  night,"  pursued  the  other,  after  a  brief  moment 
devoted  to  rapid  mental  labour.  "I  used  to  know  her 
husband  and  her  too,  before  I — before  he  disappeared. 
This  is  my  native  place,  and  when  I  was  a  boy,  the  Cap- 
tain was  one  too,  and  we  played  about  together.  When 
he  was  'prenticed  to  the  Merchant  Service,  his  father  got 
me  a  berth  on  the  same  vessel,  the  Quick  Passage  she  was, 


A!  Sailor's  Home  81; 

trading  to  the  Bermudas.  I  sailed  with  him  when  he  was 
mate  of  the  Fancy  Free,  an'  when  he  got  his  master's 
certificate.  When  he  got  married  to  that  young  woman 
I  peeped  at  through  the  window,  I  was" — the  speaker 
gulped — "I  was  there " 

"An*  when  he  caught  another  bloke  kissin*  'er  in  the 
garden  when  he  came  'ome  from  givin*  evidence  before 
the  Board  o'  Trade,  'bout  'is  runnin*  down  a  trawler — an* 
made  up  'is  mind  to  go  away  on  the  quiet  like  Enoch 
Ardin — or  whatever  you  said  'is  name  was — was  yer  with 
'im  then  ?"  Tommy  demanded. 

"Yes,  I  was,"  asserted  the  other,  and  Tommy  seemed 
shaken  for  the  first  time.  But  he  rallied  enough  to  ask : 

"Then  why  didn't  yer  knock  at  the  door  last  night  an* 
tell  her  where  her  'usband  is?" 

"Because  I  took  my  oath  to  him  I'd  never  betray  him," 
the  stout  mariner  said,  with  a  breath  of  relief,  "and  he 
knew  Ben  Bliss  would  keep  his  word !  Besides,  the  shock 
of  seeing  me  might  have  killed  her." 

"Wot?"  ejaculated  Tommy. 

"Or  driven  her  mad !"  asserted  the  other  comfortably. 

"Yer  ain't  over-'an'some  to  look  at,"  said  Tommy,  with 
critical  regard,  "but  I've  seen  a  uglier  face  than  wot 
yours  is.  Remember  that  Finn — him  with  the " 

"Because  I'm  the  breathing  image  of  her  husband, 
Captain  Honeyblow,"  said  the  other  hastily,  "that's  why 
it  would  upset  her  to  see  me.  We  were  as  like  as  twins 
'. — everybody  noticed  it.  And  now  that  he's  dead  and 
gone » 

"Dead,  is  he?"  said  Tommy.  **Yer  never  told  me  that 
afore." 

"He  went  away  to  die  when  he  found  out  that  his  newly 
married  wife  didn't  care  for  him,"  said  the  stout  seaman, 
wiping  away  a  furtive  tear. 

"Ah,  but  did  'e  ?"  said  Tommy  acutely. 

"He  did,"  said  the  alleged  Mr.  Bliss ;  "soon  after— died 


82  A  Sailor's  Home 

of  a  broken  heart  in  a  lonely  spot  at  the — the  North  Pole, 
without  a  living  creature  near  him  to  tell  the  tale." 

"Then  'ow  is  it  yer  can  tell  it  ?"  interrogated  the  young 
cross-examiner. 

"Because  his  ghost  appeared  to  me,"  returned  the  other 
"and  revealed  the  secret.  Nobody  but  me  knows,  or  ever 
will  know,  where  he  lies." 

"Then  why  don't  yer  up  and  pretend  to  be  him  ?"  said 
Tommy  eagerly.  "You  might  'a*  knocked  at  the  door 
last  night  an'  said  so.  If  yer  as  like  Cap'n  'Oneyblow  as 
wot  yer  say  yer  are,  Mrs.  'Oneyblow  'ud  'ave  believed  yer. 
Where's  yer  'ead  gone  to,  that  yer  didn't  think  of  it 
before?" 

"Why,  you — you  wicked  little  scamp!"  said  the  stout 
seaman,  with  deep  feeling.  "Do  you  suppose  I'd  stoop 
to  a  deception  like  that?  Pretend  to  be  another  man — 
and  tell  falsehood  upon  falsehood?  If  ever  you  got  any 
education,  you're  a  disgrace  to  it." 

But  Tommy  had  slipped  down  from  his  tall  chair. 
"Come  on!  I'll  stand  by  yer  an'  see  yer  through,"  he 
said  protectingly.  "As  for  'er — Mrs.  'Oneyblow — dyin' 
or  goin*  mad,  wimmen  don't  die  so  easy,  an'  she  must 
'ave  bin  mad,  anyway,  to  marry  a  man  like " 

"Like ?"  said  the  stout  seaman,  flushing  angrily. 

"Go  on ;  let's  hear.  Like " 

"Like  'im,"  said  Tommy  guardedly.  "Come  on,  let's 
go  an*  break  the  good  news." 

"You're  a  boy,  and  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,"  said  the  other  loftily.  "Let's  get  out  of  this! 
There's  people  been  staring  at  you  and  me  for  minutes 
past  over  the  ground  glass  of  that  partition  bottom  of  the 
shop  there.  As  for  what  you  suggest,  it's  felony — punish- 
able with  imprisonment  for  life  if  I  were  found  out. 
You  don't  think  what  a  thing  it  would  be  for  me " 

"An*  yer  don't  think  wot  a  thing  it  would  be  for  me," 
said  Tommy  in  a  hoarse  whisper  of  swelling  injury,  "to 


A!  Sailor's  Home  83 

'ave  saved  the  life  of  a  real  skipper  with  a  master's  cer- 
tificate, 'stead  of  a  common,  ordinary  ship's  cook  like  yer. 
Wot  do  yer  mean  by  such  selfishness  ?  Why,  it  'ud  make 
me  fortune.  Over  and  over  ag*in,  it  would.  I'm  s'prised 
at  yer,  I  am.  Wot's  wrong,  now  ?" 

For  the  stout  seaman,  after  stealing  a  second  hurried 
glance  at  the  glass  partition,  had  turned  very  pale  and 
risen  to  his  feet. 

"Come  away — I  can't  stand  the  smell  of  food  in  here !" 
he  said  breathlessly,  grasping  his  young  companion  firmly 
by  a  portion  of  his  only  garment,  and  beginning  to  pick 
his  way  amongst  the  little  tables  in  the  direction  of  the 
street.  But  even  as  he  reached  the  glass  swing-doors,  the 
portal  was  blocked  up  by  the  bodies  of  four  seamen,  who 
had  passed  on  their  way  out  a  moment  previously.  Now 
they  formed  a  living  barrier  between  the  fugitive  and 
freedom,  and  on  the  face  of  every  man  sat  a  pleased, 
expectant  smile. 

"  'Ow  are  you,  matey?"  inquired  Mr.  Wimper,  to  whom 
one  of  the  faces  belonged.  "Coin'  to  cut  an*  run  an* 
leave  all  your  ole  pals  be'ind  you,  was  you?"  He  smote 
the  stout  seaman  powerfully  upon  one  shoulder.  "  'Eave 
to  an'  let's  'ave  a  yarn !"  he  said. 

"Stow  that,  William,"  said  Mr.  Mix  rebukingly.  "If 
you  don't  know  respect  to  your  superiors,  you  must  be 
learned  it.  A  cap'n's  a  cap'n,  wotever  'e  'as  on — or  off," 
added  Mr.  Mix,  correcting  himself. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  either  of 
you,"  said  the  alleged  Mr.  Bliss,  with  pale  face  and 
twitching  lips.  "This  boy  and  me  made  the  voyage  from 
Halifax  as  stowaways — and  we've  struck  hard  times  here, 
as  well  as  on  the  other  side.  Being  destitute  and  starving 
— not  a  penny  to  bless  ourselves  with,  we  came  in  here 
and  ordered  food. 

"An*  nat'rally  enough,"  said  Mr.  Wimper,  "when 
you've  'ad  your  blow  out,  you  slips  your  cable.  But  you're 


84  'A  Sailor's  Home 

leavin'  more  than  a  little  bill  be'ind,  though  you  don't 
know  it!" 

"William!"  said  Mr.  Mix  warningly. 

"Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about!"  said  the  stout  seaman  fervently. 

"'E  don't  know  'isself,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Mix  with  re- 
spectful warmth. 

"It's  no  good  your  sir-ring  me,"  said  the  unhappy  stout 
seaman  doggedly.  "My  name's  Ben  Bliss,  and  my  rat- 
ing's ship's  cook.  Consequently " 

"Consequently  you  never  sailed  with  me  aboard  the 
'Ope  of  'Arurich?"  put  in  the  irrepressible  Mr.  Wimper. 
"Consequently  you  never  got  boozed  an*  kept  it  up? 
Consequently  you  never  sent  the  ole  man  up  a  biled  fowl 
with  the  feathers  on  an'  the  inside " 

"Upon  my  oath,  I  never  did,"  said  the  agitated  stout 
seaman. 

"O'  course  not,  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Mix 
warmly. 

"O*  course  not,  sir!"  chorused  Mr.  Mix's  two  sup- 
porters. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  Captain  Honeybird,  or  'blow,' 
or  whatever  the  name  is?"  demanded  the  stout  seaman, 
"when  I  tell  you  my  name's  Bliss?" 

"  'Cos  they've  got  it  into  their  fat  'eads,"  explained 
Mr.  Wimper,  with  graceful  familiarity,  "as  there's  a  bit 
o'  boodle  to  be  made  out  of  provin'  you  to  be  the  other 
bloke,  matey.  But  me  an'  you  knows  better,  don't  us? 
An'  so  does  somebody  else  in  there!"  Mr.  Wimper's 
jerked  thumb  indicated  the  glazed  partition.  "Come 
along  an'  see  'er."  He  took  the  arm  of  the  stout  sea- 
man with  a  wink  suggesting  sympathy  with  the  softer 
emotions.  But  the  frenzied  stout  seaman  shook  him 
off. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  or  who  you're  talking 
about.  You've  been  drinking,  my  man,  that's  what 


A  Sailor's  Home  85 

you've  been.  Let  me  pass,  and  I'll  overlook  it  this 
time !" 

Far  from  being  wounded  by  the  personality,  Mr.  Wim- 
per  grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  "Ain't  'e  a  daisy?"  he 
chuckled.  "Ain't  'e  a  fair  treat !  Been  drinkin' !  Good 
ole  Benny  wot  got  overboard  to  wash  'is  socks  in  the 
middle  of  the  Atlantic!"  He  wiped  his  brimming  eyes 
upon  his  sleeve.  "  'E'll  overlook  it  this  time !"  he  gasped. 
"Overlook  it!" 

"I'm  ashamed  o'  you,  William  Wimper,"  said  Mr.  Mix 
severely.  Stimulated  by  this  sympathy,  his  victim  made 
an  effort  to  pass,  instantly  foiled  by  the  saline  veteran. 
"No,  sir,"  he  said,  solemnly  elevating  an  expostulating 
palm.  "Excuse  me,  Cap'n,  but  not  if  I  know  it!" 

"I've  told  you  we've  got  no  money !"  said  the  flushed 
and  desperate  stout  seaman,  looking  anxiously  over  his 
shoulder.  "Let  me  and  the  boy  get  a  fair  start  before 
the  attention  of  the  manager  is  attracted — and — and  I'll 
do  as  much  for  you  another  time." 

"Beggin*  your  pardon,  Cap'n,"  apologised  Mr.  Mix,  "it 
can't  be  done.  No  ways,  it  can't." 

"My  belief  is  you're  all  intoxicated,"  said  the  person 
addressed,  savagely.  Mr.  Mix  rolled  a  bleary  eye  ceiling- 
wards  in  pious  horror,  and  Mr.  Wimper  was  seized  with 
a  fresh  paroxysm  of  mirth. 

"Stow  it!  Stow  it,  Benny,  ole  man,"  he  panted,  "or 
I  shall  bust  somethin'.  An'  don't  be  in  a  'urry  to  leave 
us,  Benny,  because  you've  a  friend  'ere  willin'  to  pay  for 
the  grub,  an'  more  if  you  want  it.  If  you  arsks  'oo,  it's 
your  wife !" 

"My "  The  stout  seaman  controlled  a  start  and 

turned  it  into  a  shake  of  the  head.  "Ben  Bliss  wasn't  a 
married  man,"  he  said  decidedly.  "That  is — he  isn't. 
None  of  your  silly  jokes  with  me !" 

"That's  right,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Mix  patronisingly,  as  Mr. 
Wimper  wilted  momentarily  under  the  stern  glance  of  the 


86  A  Sailor's  Home 

stout  seaman's  eye.  "Don't  put  up  with  his  familiarness. 
It's  your  own  dear  good  lady  as  is  a-waiting  for  you  in 
there.  Mrs.  Captain  Daniel  'Oneyblow  as " 

"What?"  gasped  the  stout  seaman,  turning  white. 

"As  's  mourned  you  as  lost,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  "up'ards 
of  two  years." 

"I  thought  'im  lost  myself,"  said  Mr.  Wimper,  who 
had  recovered.  "Didn't  I  see  'im  go?  But  'e  was  too 
full  o'  whisky  to  leave  room  for  salt  water,  an'  'ere  'e  is 
as  frisky  as  ever,  pretendin'  to  be  a  bachelor  bloke  just 
for  the  fun  a'  the  thing!"  He  grasped  the  arm  of  the 
disputed  article  of  salvage  as  Mr.  Mix  shot  forth  a  horny 
claw  and  possessed  himself  of  the  right  one.  "But  stow 
larks,  Benny,  or  your  missus  '11  be  gettin'  impatient. 
Come  along,  come  along  and  see  'er !" 

"Come  along  an'  see  'er,  Cap'n,"  said  Mr.  Mix.    "O 
won't  it  be  a  'appy  meetin'  when  you  an'  she " 

"Is  this  who  you  mean?"  said  the  captive  with  a 
creditably  simulated  air  of  vacancy,  as  a  stout,  middle- 
aged  woman  in  a  cap  approached,  followed  by  an  official 
of  the  establishment. 

"No,  an'  you  know  it,"  said  Mr.  Wimper  shortly. 

"It's  the  Matron,  sir,"  explained  Mr.  Mix.  "Bring  the 
boy  along,  you  chaps  be'ind.  I've  found  'im,  mum ;  I've 
found  the  missin'  'usband  of  that  dear  lady  in  there. 
Won't  she  bless  old  Mix  for  this " 

"When  she  sees  'e's  got  'old  of  the  wrong  man!" 
sneered  Wimper.  "Don't  you  'ang  back,  Benny ;  shyness 
ain't  like  you." 

Holding  the  stout  stranger  in  the  powerful  grasp  neces- 
sitated by  his  shrinking  desire  for  anonymity,  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  glass-partitioned  room.  Two  feminine 
shrieks,  uttered  simultaneously  in  different  keys,  greeted 
the  involuntary  entrance  of  the  stout  seaman. 

"It's  Bliss — Ben  Bliss,  your  husband!  Yes,  Hannah, 
it  is — it  is!"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 


A  Sailor's  Home 


"Oh  no,  'm,  no!  It's  Cap'n  'Oneyblow  come  back  to 
you  again !"  screamed  Mrs.  Bliss. 

The  stout  seaman,  at  the  first  shrill  note  of  Mrs. 
Honeyblow's  scream,  had  given  a  galvanic  start.  Fram- 
ing a  rapid  resolution  in  the  desperate  state  of  things,  he 
let  his  red  beard  drop  upon  his  chest  and  stared  from 
one  tearful  countenance  to  the  other  with  a  really  credit- 
able assumption  of  vacancy. 

"My  Daniel — that !  Never !"  gasped  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 
"It's  your  own  husband,  Bliss.  He — oh,  can  it  be  that 
he  doesn't  recognise  you,  Hannah  ?" 

"Oh,  Cap'n  Honeyblow,  sir,  don't  you  know  your  own 
dear  wife?  Look  at  'er  again,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Bliss.  "Oh, 
do — do  look  at  'er  again !" 

A  ray  of  meaning  came  into  the  dull  eyes  of  the  red- 
bearded  seaman.  "I  don't  know  her,"  he  said  stolidly, 
carefully  averting  his  glance  from  the  pretty  features 
surmounted  by  the  widow's  bonnet.  "And  I  don't  know 
you.  Your  faces  are  familiar  to  me — I  mean  quite 
strange.  You  must  be  mistaking  me  for  somebody  else, 
my — my  good  woman."  , 

The  gifted  artist  swept  the  cold  dews  from  his  fore- 
head with  a  right  hand  that  trembled  visibly. 

"With  her  initial  tattooed  on  your  hand!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Honeyblow,  pointing  to  the  guilty  member.  "  'H' 
for  Hannah." 

"Oh,  please,  Miss  'Arriet,  ma'am,  I  mean,"  cried  Mrs. 
Bliss,  "the  Captain  'ad  the  same.  My  poor  Ben  borrowed 
a  carpet-needle  from  me  to  do  the  prickin'  with.  He " 

"Yes,  didn't  you?"  said  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  smiling 
soothingly  on  the  red-bearded  man,  who  felt  the  blood 
rush  dizzily  to  his  brain. 

"Tommy,"  he  said  in  a  strangled  voice. 

"  'Ere,"  said  Tommy  guardedly. 

"Tell  these  ladies  that  I've  lost  my  memory,"  appealed 
the  disputed  property. 


88  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Ever  since  the  day  I  dove  overboard  and  saved  yer 
life,  yer  'ave,"  responded  Tommy  promptly. 

"Dived!"  echoed  the  stout  seaman  angrily. 

"Dove,"  said  Tommy,  shrilly,  "an'  killed  that  shark 
wot  nearly  bit  yer  legs  orf.  The  Cap'n  said  it  was  the 
most  gallantest  haction  'er  ever  sor." 

"There  wasn't  any  shark  there !"  shouted  the  red- 
bearded,  stout  seaman,  "or  any  captain,  either ;  and  you're 
a  little  liar !" 

"Yer  forget  yer've  lost  yer  memory,"  said  Tommy 
promptly.  "There  was  three  of  us  there,  just  as  I've 
said — me  an'  the  shark,  an'  Ben  Bliss,  an'  Cap'n  Honey- 
blow." 

"Captain  Honeyblow !"  exclaimed  that  officer's  relict, 
seizing  the  boy  by  the  sleeve.  "Was  he  there?" 

Tommy  nodded  portentiously.  The  stout  seaman 
stared  at  him  with  bolting  eyes.  Four  seamen  guarded 
the  door.  The  situation  hung  upon  the  lips  of  one  small, 
unwashed  boy,  dressed  in  the  moiety  of  a  pair  of  adult 
mariner's  trousers. 

"He  was  there  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "Then  where 
is  he  now?" 

"There,"  said  Tommy,  pointing  a  stubby,  black  finger 
adorned  with  a  half -eaten  nail  at  the  hapless  stout  sea- 
man. Before  Mrs.  Honeyblow  had  time  to  emit  another 
sentence — "An'  Ben  Bliss  is  there,  too,"  said  Tommy. 
"Ever  since  'e  lost  'is  memory  'e  don't  know  which  'e  is. 
My  belief " 

"But  before  he  had  the  shock "  faltered  Mrs. 

Honeyblow,  holding  on  to  the  equally  agitated  Mrs.  Bliss. 
"Before  you  saved  his  life " 

"Which  was  'e  then?  Tell  us,  there's  a  dear!"  en- 
treated Mrs.  Bliss.  But  Tommy  shook  his  head. 

"I  dunno,"  he  said  simply.  "I  never  seed  'im  till  I 
sor  'im  in  the  water,  swimmin*  for  'is  life,  with  the 
shark  goin*  to  bite  'is  'ead  orf.  An*  I  dove  overboard — 


A  Sailor's  Home  89 

off  a  vessel  boun'  for — for  Colarado — an'  killed  the  shark 
— an'  saved  'im." 

"I  wish  that  shark  'ad  'ad  a  bit  more  sense,"  said  Mr. 
Mix  savagely  from  behind.  "I  wish " 

But  Mrs.  Honeyblow  and  Mrs.  Bliss  were  straining 
their  vision  as  they  gazed  at  the  maritime  mystery  before 
them.  The  mystery  had  taken  refuge  in  stolid  silence. 

"Oh,  try,  try  to  remember,"  urged  Mrs.  Honeyblow, 
"that  your  name  is  Bliss !  Isn't  it,  my  poor  fellow  ?" 

"Think  a  bit,  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  do,  sir,  an'  it'll  all  come 
back  to  you,"  besought  Mrs.  Bliss. 

But  under  the  interrogatory  gaze  of  eager  eyes  the 
stout,  red-bearded  seaman  remained  silent  and  inscrut- 
able. 

ill 

Mrs.  Bliss  resided  in  Paradise  Row,  a  street  situated  in 
the  rural  suburbs  of  Winksea.  The  gooseberry  bushes  in 
the  little  front  garden  bore  a  fine  crop  of  drying  linen, 
and  heavily  laden  lines  bearing  garments  of  both  sexes 
traversed  the  path,  at  a  height  calculated  not  to  miss  the 
hat  of  a  visitor. 

"But  I've  got  no  'eart  for  ironing,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  as 
she  sprinkled  a  basket  of  shirts  with  starch  and  water. 
"Wot  woman  could  'ave,  with  this  'anging  over  'er?" 

Mr.  Limbird  grunted  an  assenting  negative  and  turned 
the  mangle  savagely. 

"It's  the  crool  uncertainty  wot's  so  trying,"  said  Mrs. 
Bliss.  "But  there!  For  days  and  nights  I've  knowed 
somethink  'orrible  was  goin'  to  'appen.  Now  it's  'oppen." 

"Well,  you're  satisfied,  ain't  you?"  growled  Mr.  Lim- 
bird. 

"Before  we  set  out  yesterday  with  the  van,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Bliss,  "you  must  'ave  noticed  I  wasn't  myself?" 

"I  did !"  said  Mr.  Limbird. 


90  iA  Sailor's  Home 

"Wot  did  I  do  that  struck  you  as  unusual,  Jim?" 
asked  the  prophetess,  slightly  flattered. 

Mr.  Limbird  ceased  to  mangle,  and  rested  his  chin  on 
the  handle  of  the  machine,  an  attitude  favourable  to  re- 
flection. "You  cleaned  the  kitchen,"  he  said,  "and  you 
smacked  the  baby." 

"I  smuck  'er,  the  blessed  innercent!"  said  Mrs.  Bliss, 
lifting  the  personage  in  question  out  of  the  cradle  and 
atoning  by  a  hug,  "because  she  would  keep  on  a-pointing 
to  that  fortygraph  of  pore  Ben  wot  hangs  by  the  dresser 
an'  calling  it  Da !" 

"She'll  be  able  to  p'int  to  something  solider  than  a 
fortygraph  before  long,"  observed  Mr.  Limbird,  with 
whom  mental  suffering  took  the  not  infrequent  form  of 
surliness.  But  he  repented  as  Mrs.  Bliss  hastily  put 
back  the  baby  in  the  cradle,  dropped  into  a  chair,  and 
began  to  cry.  "I  didn't  mean  to  'urt  you  by  the  'int, 
'Annah,"  he  said,  swallowing  something  that  stuck  in  his 
own  throat,  "but  if  we've  got  to  face  it,  we  'ave.  This 
ain't  Cap'n  'Oneyblow  what  'as  come  back  with  'is  'ead 
screwed  on  the  wrong  way,  an'  thinks  'arf  the  time  'e's 
Benjamin  Bliss;  it's  Benjamin  Bliss  what  supposes  'e's 
Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  an'  you  an'  me  are  a-setting  on  a  light- 
ed powder-barrel,  so  to  speak,  waiting  to  be  blowed  apart 
for  ever.  That's  'ow  I  look  at  it."  He  wiped  his  heated 
brow  with  a  red  handkerchief,  and  after  an  instant's  si- 
lent struggle  mopped  his  eyes  also. 

"To  co-come  back,"  Mrs.  Bliss  wailed,  "like  this !  Af- 
ter two  years!  Not  drowned,  as  the  cap'n  of  the  'Ope 

of  'Arwich  said  'e  was,  but  alive  an' "  The  rest  of 

the  sentence  was  smoothered  in  apron. 

"He'll  miss  a  old  thing  or  so,"  said  Mr.  Limbird.  His 
glance  strayed  eloquently  in  the  direction  of  the  cradle, 
whose  occupant  was  placidly  sucking  a  plug  of  india- 
rubber.  "An*  he'll  find  one  or  two  new  'uns.  What  came 
b'  that  grandfather's  clock  'e  used  to  be  so  proud  of  ?" 


A  Sailor's  Home  91 

"I  sold  it  to  Mr.  'Arris,  the  broker  in  Ropewalk  Street, 
a  month  after  you  an'  me  got  married  by  the  Registrar 
on  the  quiet,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Bliss.  "  'E  gave  me  thirty 
shillin's  in  cash  an*  a  new  double-bedded  bolster." 

"  'Cos  the  old  one  was  all  lumps.  I  know,"  assented 
Mr.  Limbird. 

"That  was  with  me  cryin'  so  much  o'  nights  when  Ben 
was  away  at  sea,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"For  fear  'e  wouldn't  come  'ome  ?"  hinted  Mr.  Limbird 
jealously. 

"For  fear  'e  would,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss  simply. 

"An'  now  'e  'as,"  said  the  distracted  Mr.  Limbird, 
"just  as  you  an*  me  was  makin*  up  our  minds  to  let  the 
neighbours  into  our  little  secret  an'  'ave  a  weddin'-break- 
fast  an'  a  christenin'-party  all  in  one." 

"My  belief  is  they  don't  want  no  lettin'  in,"  responded 
Mrs.  Bliss,  as  she  dried  her  eyes.  "Mrs.  Gedge  she 
guessed  long  ago,  if  you  ast  me ;  and  Mrs.  Maw  an'  'er 
sister  guss  before  'er.  Mr.  'Arris  goss  when  I  swapped 
the  clock,  for  'e  winked  at  me,  an'  wonk  at  'is  shopman, 
an' " 

"There's  a  knock  at  the  door,"  signalled  Mr  Limbird. 

Mrs.  Bliss  caught  up  the  cradle,  occupant  and  all,  and 
stuffed  it  into  his  arms,  and  the  wharf -watchman,  open- 
ing a  door  artfully  papered  over  and  communicating  with 
his  own  bachelor  dwelling,  noiselessly  vanished,  as,  with 
her  hand  upon  her  heart,  Mrs.  Bliss  economically  opened 
the  door,  an  inch  at  a  time. 

"It's  Mrs.  Honeyblow,"  said  the  voice  of  that  lady. 
"Don't  look  so  frightened,  Hannah !" 

Mrs.  Bliss  promptly  altered  her  expression  as  her 
glance  fell  upon  her  visitor's  attire. 

"You've — you've  gone  out  of  weeds,  'm!"  she  cried 
joyfully. 

"Into  half-mourning,"  corrected  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  "be- 
cause, since  yesterday  morning,  I'm  only  half  certain 


92  A  Sailor's  Home 

that  I'm  a  widow.  It's  about  that  I've  come.  We're 
going  to  send — him — down  here  from  the  Home  this 
afternoon." 

Mrs.  Bliss  became  rigid  with  apprehension,  and  Mr. 
Limbird,  listening  behind  the  paper-covered  door, 
clenched  his  fists  in  an  access  of  jealous  fury. 

"For  a  little  while,  under  charge  of  some  kindly  sail- 
ors," said  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  "in  the  hope  that  his  weary 
brain  may  be  refreshed  by  the  sight  of  familiar  objects." 

"If  you  mean  me,  'm "  began  Mrs.  Bliss,  with  ris- 
ing emotion. 

"His  memory  might  come  back,  quite  suddenly,  the 
Doctor  says.  Oh !  think  what  it  would  mean  to  have  your 
husband  back  again!"  said  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"That's  just  what  I  do  think !"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  with 
a  shiver.  "I've  thunk  of  nothing  else  since  yesterday!" 

"You  must  have  been  so  lonely,  Hannah !"  cried  Mrs. 
Honeyblow. 

Mrs.  Bliss  looked  down  and  pleated  her  apron. 

"Without  a  man's  voice  and  a  man's  step  a  house  does 
seem  so  empty,"  pursued  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  with  a  sigh. 
'7  know  what  it  is,  and  I  can  feel  for  you.  And  for 
this  poor  wanderer  too !" 

"Then  why  don't  you  let  the  kindly  sailors  take  'im 
out  to  your  'ouse  and  refresh  'is  weary  brain  with  the 
familiar  objects  there?"  said  the  laundress,  reddening 
indignantly.  "His  memory  might  come  back  suddenly, 
an'  think  wot  it  would  mean  to  'ave  your  own  dear 
'usband  back  again !" 

The  ladies  exchanged  a  look  of  indecipherable  mean- 
ing. 

"I  do,  I  do ;  but  to  wish  to  be  happy  at  your  expense 
would  be  so  selfish,  Hannah!"  said  Mrs.  Honeyblow 
angelically.  "You  don't  think  I  grudge  you  the  joy  of 
reunion  with " 

"Miss  'Arriet,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  nerving  herself  for  the 


A  Sailor's  Home  93 

struggle.  "I  won't  'ave  'im!  I've  said  I  won't,  an*  I 
wun't.  'E  don't  belong  to  me.  If  you  must  'ave  it,  I'm 
better  suited.  Me  and  Mr.  Limbird  next  door  got  joined 
before  the  Registrar  a  year  back,  an'  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it,"  added  the  desperate  woman  as  an  infantile 
wail  pierced  the  paper-covered  door  of  communication 
with  the  next  house,  "there's  the  the  baby  cryin*  now." 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Honey  blow  in  shocked  accents, 
"how  dreadful!  What  a  revelation! — how  inprudent 
you  have  been !  What — oh !  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?" 

"Stick  out  as  Ben's  dead  an'  I'm  a  widder  until  'e 
proves  beyond  doubt  as  'e's  alive  an*  I  ain't  one!"  said 
Mrs.  Bliss  with  great  firmness. 

"But,  Hannah,  my  poor,  dear  Hannah!"  began  Mrs. 
Honeyblow. 

"Coaxin's  no  use,  Miss  'Arriet!"  said  the  laundress. 
"If  you  was  to  sit  on  that  rush-bottomed  cheer  from 
Christmas  to  Barnaby,  persuadin'  me,  I'd  never  be  cux 
or  perswodd  into  takin'  a  'usband  wot  isn't  mine. 
Ne-ver !" 

"Brayvo !"  said  the  listening  Mr.  Limbird. 

It's  'ard  on  Doctor  Venables  to  'ave  a  blight  fall  on  'is 
budding  'opes,"  pursued  the  eloquent  laundress,  "but 
they've  got  to  be  blote,  if  it  depends  on  me!" 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Hannah !"  said  Mrs.  Honey- 
blow  icily,  but  with  a  complexion  considerably  warmed. 
She  gave  emphasis  to  the  declaration  by  immediately 
adding:  "Have  people  been  talking?  Oh!  what  busy- 
bodies  !  What  are  they  saying?"  . 

"Only  that  the  Doctor  'ave  become  very  fond  of  calling 
at  The  Vineyard !"  returned  Mrs.  Bliss. 

The  Vineyard  was  Mrs.  Honeyblow's  suburban  villa, 
and  Mrs.  Honeyblow  was  tinglingly  conscious  that  her 
health  had,  during  the  last  twelve  months,  required  a 
good  deal  of  professional  attendance. 

"He  has  certainly  called  at  The  Vineyard  very  regu- 


94  A  Sailor's  Home 

larly,"  she  owned.  "But  he  is  very  shy  and  very  re- 
served, and  has  said  nothing  definite  to  me,  and  I  have 
said  nothing  definite  to  him.  And  at  this  moment  of 

dreadful  uncertainty "  Her  rounded  chin  quivered, 

and  large  tears  rose  in  her  effective  eyes.  Mrs.  Bliss  slid 
from  her  chair  and  knelt  beside  her. 

"Don't  be  uncertain,  Miss  'Arriet,"  she  implored. 
"Make  up  your  mind  it's  the  Captain!  The  Captain, 
come  back  like  a  repentant  prodigy,  longin'  to  be  folded 
to  your  'art  of  'arts.  Say  it  over  an'  over  till  the  good 
news  seems  true,  like  I  done  when  I  see  in  the  Weekly 
Gazette  as  my  Ben  were  drowned  at  sea!" 

Mrs.  Honeyblow  was  visibly  shaken  by  this  impas- 
sioned appeal.  "Hannah,  Hannah,  my  good  girl,"  she 
panted,  "if  I  only — if  I  could  really — if  it  were  as  you 
say!  But  Daniel  must  be  dead!  He  must  have  been 
kidnapped — oh!  I've  thought  it  all  out! — murdered  in 
London  by  the  owners  of  that  smack  who  brought  the  ac- 
tion." 

"They  won  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss;  "an*  as  for  revenge, 
they  'ad  it  out  of  'im  in  chaff  in  Court.  Not  but  wot  that 
might  'a'  preyed  upon  'is  feelings,  bein*  made  a  laughin'- 
stock  of !" 

"He  never  could  see  a  joke — any  more  than  he  could 
leave  off  being  jealous  if  another  man  looked  at  me!" 
sighed  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  Mrs.  Bliss  suddenly  clutched 
her  arm. 

"Miss  'Arriet — if  I  never  breathe  my  lips  again,"  said 
Mrs.  Bliss  with  dramatic  fervour,  "I've  got  to  say  it 
now.  It  was  jealousy  druv  the  Cap'n  to  vanish  like  that, 
just  as  'e  stood,  in  a  suit  o'  Navy  serge,  with  two  pound 
ten  in  'is  pocket.  Don't  speak,  ma'am;  wait  a  minute! 
Twenty  times  the  words  'as  bin  on  the  tip  o*  my  tongue. 
But  I've  check  'em,  an*  chock  'em,  an'  chuck  'em — 
though  I  knew  they  was  bound  to  out.  You  remember 
that  June  day  Cap'n  'Oneyblow  vunish — I  was  up  at  The 


A  Sailor's  Home  95 

Vineyard  'elpin'  your  two  girls  with  a  late  spring-clean  ?" 

"Yes — yes !"  gurgled  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  Oh,  please  be 
quick!" 

"You  'ad  on  a  new " 

"Gown — yes,  I  know,  white  trimmed  with  lilac." 

"An*  the  Doctor  dropped  in,  quite  late,  to  afternoon 
tea." 

"We  had  it  on  the  lawn,  under  the  trees,  the  weather 
was  so  beautifully  warm.  Go  on!" 

"I  was  in  the  little  breakfast-parlour,  lookin'  on  the 
lawn,  washin'  the  Venetian  blinds.  Sudden,  I  heard  a 
screech — sudden,  I  did — an'  peeped  through  the  slats," 
said  Mrs.  Bliss  earnestly,  "the  blinds  bein' " 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"I  pope  through " 

"You've  said  that!" 

"I  pup,  an'  what  do  you  think  I  sor?" 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"I  sor  you  runnin'  round  an'  round  the  lawn,  giving 
little  playful  shrieks  like " 

"Oh!" 

"An'  the  Doctor  chasin'  you,  with  'is  black  coat-tails 
flyin'  on  the  breeze,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  emphatically.  "  'E 
chuss  you  till  'e  caught  you,  quite  frisky  like,  an' 
then " 

"I  know — I — oh,  Hannah ;  what  must  you  have " 

"I  sor  'im  catch  you  from  behind,  round  the  neck,  in 
a  very  ticklin',  playful  way.  An'  that  very  moment  I 
'card  'eavy  steps,  like  the  Captain's,  go  down  the  little 
avenue  be'ind  the  'igh  'oily  'edge,  an'  the  garden  gate 
shut.  An'  the  Captain  never  come  'ome  that  night,  nor 
after.  The  'orrid  truth  must  'a'  flashed  on  him  like  light- 
nin'  and  froze  'is  blood,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"And  you  believe  that  when  you " 

"Pap  through  them  blinds " 

"You  saw  me  and  Doctor  Venables  kissing — kissing !" 


g6  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Not  azackly  kissin.'  Playful  in  a  Bank  'Oliday  kind 
of  way  I  shouldn't  V  expected,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss  can- 
didly. 

"Then  you  wronged  us  both  wickedly !"  declared  Mrs. 
Honeyblow  with  spirit.  "The  Doctor  did  run  after  me, 
and  I  screamed,  but  only  because  a  cockchafer  had  got 
into  my  hair.  One  of  those  horrid,  leggy  things  with 
sticky  wings  and  fat  bodies.  Oh,  Hannah !  and  you  be- 
lieve that " 

"When  I  pip  at  you  both,  the  Cap'n  was  a-popping 
too,"  Mrs.  Bliss  nodded. 

"And — that — was — what  drove  him — away?" 

Mrs.  Honeyblow  burst  into  tears.  The  drops  dried 
upon  he  flaming  cheeks  as  the  latched  door  vibrated  un- 
der a  tremendous  thump  from  an  unseen  fist,  and  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Wimper  sang  out: 

"A'oy!" 

"It's  'im !"  whispered  Mrs.  Bliss,  reconnoitring  through 
the  latch-hole.  "Them  sailormen  'ave  brought  'im,  as 
you  said.  The  boy's  there,  too.  Look  an'  see!" 

"Oh,  Hannah!  that  woeful  wreck  of  humanity  can 
never  be  my  Daniel !"  gasped  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "Don't 
— don't  open  the  door  for  a  second.  I  shall  faint  or 
something,  I'm  sure!" 

"I've  got  somethink  to  do  before  7  take  an'  faint,"  said 
Mrs.  Bliss  with  determination.  "I've  got  to  prove  as 
what  this  woeful  human  wreck  ain't  my  Ben — an'  I'm 
goin'  to." 

"Wh-what  will  you  d-do  ?"  whispered  Mrs.  Honeyblow 
through  chattering  teeth. 

"Put  'im  to  the  test,"  declared  the  stronger  spirit, 
untying  a  coloured  apron  and  revealing  the  smarter  one 
beneath.  Then  she  opened  the  door.  The  stout,  red- 
bearded  seaman  was  standing  vacantly  staring  on  the 
doorstep,  the  small  boy,  whose  wardrobe  had  been  aug- 
mented by  several  charitable  contributions,  stood  behind 


A  Sailor's  Home  97 

him,  and  four  attentive  mariners  mounted  guard  upon 
the  fence. 

"Good-day!"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  with  a  beaming  smile. 

"  'Day !"  said  the  stout  seaman  briefly.  His  eye,  trav- 
elling beyond  Mrs.  Bliss  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Honeyblow, 
grew  stonier,  his  vacancy  of  manner  more  laboriously 
pronounced. 

"I  needn't  'ardly  say  you're  welcome,  Cap'n  Honey- 
blow,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss.  "Step  in,  sir,  step  in.  You'll 
find  your  good  lady  'ere.  Ain't  that  pleasant?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the  stout  seaman, 
taking  refuse  in  one  side  of  his  dual  personality.  "I'm 
Ben  Bliss,  that's  who  I  am — never  was  anybody  else — and 
this  lady  is  nothing  to  me !  I've  found  my  lost  memory — 
and  I  remember  everything!" 

Spurred  by  disavowal  to  resentment,  Mrs.  Honeyblow 
tossed  her  head,  while  Mrs.  Bliss  for  the  moment  lost 
hers. 

"Speak  to  'im,  lady!"  pressed  the  alarmed  Mr.  Mix. 
"Take  'is  'and  an'  call  'im  a  pet  name.  It  might  bring 
'im  to  'isself." 

"There's  your  missus,  Benny,  ole  man!"  urged  Mr. 
Wimper  willingly.  "Say,  'Ta,  ta,'  an'  give  'er  a  pretty 
kiss !" 

"If  'e  does,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  regaining  her  self-com- 
mand, "it  won't  be  before  all  the  riff-raff  o'  the  town. 
I  should  'a'  thought  you'd  been  cured  o'  keepin'  low  com- 
p'ny,  Ben,  by  'arf  of  what  you  'ave  went  through.  Now 
you  can  come  in,  if  you  like,  an'  make  yourself  at  'ome, 
but  no  choppin'  an'  changin'.  If  you  say  Ben,  you  stay 
Ben — an'  so  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  it." 

Holding  the  door  invitingly  open,  the  intrepid  laun- 
dress waited,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  perturbed  counte- 
nance of  the  stout  seaman,  who  hesitated,  fidgeted,  and 
then  to  the  unmixed  triumph  of  Mr.  Wimper,  and  the 
consternation  of  Mr.  Mix  and  his  contingent,  stepped 


98  A  Sailor's  Home 

boldly  over  the  threshold.  Much  fluttered,  and  with  a 
growing  sense  of  injury,  Mrs.  Honeyblow  took  leave. 

"It's  quite  like  old  times  to  'ave  'ad  you  'ere,  Miss 
'Arriet,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss.  "My  respects  to  Doctor  Ven- 
ables,  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  ma'am,  when  next  you  see  him. 
And  I  hope  it'll  be  soon !" 

An  electric  shock  seemed  to  dart  through  the  frame 
of  the  stout  seaman  as  the  door  shut  and  the  distant 
gate  clicked  behind  the  retreating  figure  of  Mrs.  Honey- 
blow. 

"She  always  'ad  a  pretty  figure,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  as 
she  shut  the  door.  "Plumper  than  wot  she  used  to  be, 

a  bit — but There,  she's  dropped  'er  'andkerchief. 

Miss  'Arriet !  Miss !  Ah !  the  boy's  run  after  an'  give  it 
'er,  an*  now  they're  walkin'  off  together." 

"Call  'im  back !"  said  the  temporary  Mr.  Bliss  earnest- 
ly. "He's  not  fit  for  a  lady  to  talk  to.  Call  the  little 
demon  back!  He'll " 

"They're  out  of  'earing  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  shutting 
the  door.  "Per'aps  she've  took  'im  on  to  see  the  Doctor. 
She  'as  a  great  admiration  for  Doctor  Venables,  'as  Mrs. 
Honeyblow !" 

"She's  hard  up  for  something  to  admire,  then!" 
growled  the  temporary  Mr.  Bliss,  grinding  the  leg  of  his 
chair  savagely  into  the  brick  floor.  "What  any  woman 
can  see  in  that  long,  veal-faced,  dab-handed,  tow-haired 
apothecary,  I  never  could  understand." 

"Your  memory's  clearin'  by  degrees,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss 
pleasantly.  The  stout  seaman  instantly  relapsed. 

"It's  odd,  ain't  it,"  observed  Mrs.  Bliss  after  a  short 
pause,  "that  Mrs.  Honeyblow  don't  take  and  marry 
again?" 

"She  can't  legally  unless  she  can  prove  her  first  hus- 
band, Captain  Honeyblow,  is  dead  or  has  deserted  her; 
and  then  the  shortest  time  she  can  marry  again  is  in 
seven  years,"  the  stout  seaman  replied  glibly. 


A  Sailor's  Home  99 

"She  proved  'is  will  a  year  ago !"  said  Mrs.  Bliss, 
bustling  about. 

"Did  she?"    The  stout  seaman  turned  bright  purple. 

"An*  she  gave  a  lot  o'  money — 'underds,  they  say — to 
found  the  'Seamen's  Temperance  'Ome' — and  Mr.  Ven- 
ables  is  paid  Medical  Officer  to  the  foundation,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"Is  he?"  jerked  out  the  stout  seaman,  apoplectically. 
"The  hound!  The  sneaking  hound!" 

"Lor*,  Ben!  I  thought  you  was  always  so  partial  to 
*im!"  giggled  Mrs.  Bliss,  as  she  set  on  the  kettle  and 
placed  a  hospitable  bloater  on  the  gridiron.  Its  searching 
perfume  reached  the  nose  of  the  listenning  Mr.  Limbird, 
for  whose  supper  it  had  been  intended,  and  the  night- 
watchman  ground  his  teeth  with  rage.  "Ah,  I  see  you 
a-starin'  at  that  corner,"  Mrs.  Bliss  continued.  "You 
miss — and  well  you  may ! — somethink  out  o'  there.  Your 
second  look  'as  always  bin  for  that  when  you've  come 
'ome  from  a  v'yage.  Your  first  was " 

"For  you,  I  suppose  you  mean?"  said  the  stout  seaman. 

"For  the  beer-barrel,  Ben,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss.  "There 
vou  go  again,  lookin'  in  the  corner.  Your  Aunt  Sarah 
left  it  you,  and  well  you  might  prize  it.  I've  seen  you 
move  it — ah! — ten  times  in  a  day,  you've  muv  it,  an' 
got  out  o*  your  bed  an*  miv  it  again!  But,  o*  course, 
you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"You're  talking  about  the  clock?"  said  the  stout  sea- 
man quite  pleasantly.  Mrs.  Bliss,  horrified  at  the  ill- 
boding  accuracy  of  his  memory,  broke  a  dish,  and  Mr. 
Limbird  broke  into  a  cold  perspiration. 

"It's  'im !  It's  'im !"  he  muttered  feebly.  The  paper- 
covered  door  creaked  under  his  lapsing  weight,  and  Mrs. 
Bliss  summoned  all  her  energies  for  the  final  effort. 

"There's  other  things  besides  the  clock,"  she  said,  "an* 
it's  nearly  time  for  you  to  see  'em.  Turn  the  bloater, 
Ben,  while  I  run  out  for  'arf  a  sec'."  She  was  gone  in 


ioo  A  Sailor's  Home 

a  moment,  and  the  temporary  Mr.  Bliss,  to  the  great 
detriment  of  the  bloater,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  come  here,"  he  pondered,  "and  I'd  be 
a  worse  fool  to  stay.  Newspapers  tell  stories  about 
men  who've  lived  double  lives  for  vears.  I've  only  led 
one  since  yesterday,  and  I  defy  ordinary  flesh  and  blood 
to  stand  it  over  a  week.  Ben  Bliss  I  can  manage,  and 
Daniel  Honevblow  comes  naturally  enough,  but  Ben  Bliss 

and  Daniel  Honevblow  at  the  same  time "  He  shook 

his  head.  "I  ought  never  to  have  disappeared  in  the 
beginning,"  he  sighed;  "but  the  only  thing  left  me,  as 
far  as  I  can  see,  is  to  disappear  again."  He  crossed 
the  kitchen  softlv  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch.  Then 
it  dropped  to  his  side.  For  the  paper-covered  door  in 
the  party-wall  opened,  and  the  square  head  of  Mr.  Lim- 
bird,  its  features  corrugated  into  a  most  uninviting 
scowl,  was  inserted  through  the  aperture. 

"No,  vou  don't."  said  Mr.  Limbird  warningly. 

"Don't  what?"  said  the  detected  fugitive  nervously. 

"Cut  an*  run,"  said  Mr.  Limbird. 

"I  seem  to  know  your  face,"  said  the  stout  seaman, 
tryine  to  smile;  "but  faces  change  with  years,  don't 
thev?" 

"I  should  like  to  alter  vours  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Limbird. 
"  'Alf  a  minute  it  'ud  take — not  longer.  What  do  you 
mean  bv  comin'  back?  Why  didn't  you  stay  drowned 
if  vou  was  drowned?  But  some  people  are  never  con- 
tent. Thev " 

"Now  then!"  cried  Mrs.  Bliss,  as  the  kitchen  door, 
thrown  open,  disclosed  her  as  the  centre  of  a  group  of 
youthful  faces.  "Here's  father.  Polly!" 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  a  long-legged  girl  of  fourteen, 
with  a  bristling  head  of  papers  surmounted  by  a  bat- 
tered straw  hat. 

" What-wha-what  ?"  gasped  Mr.  Limbird. 


A  Sailor's  Home  101 

"Kiss  your  father,  Polly !"  ordered  Mrs.  Bliss,  and  the 
stout  seaman  submitted  to  the  ordeal. 

"She's  more  like  you  than  ever,"  stated  Mrs.  Bliss. 
"Bill !" 

"Yes,  mother/*  yelled  a  chubby- faced  boy  of  twelve, 
who  held  a  top,  a  whip,  and  a  partly  consumed  bunch 
of  bread-and-treacle. 

"Kiss  your  father,  Bill,"  commanded  Mrs.  Bliss.  "Ju- 
bilee, take  your  finger  out  o'  your  mouth,  an'  kiss  'im 
too.  Elf  red,  blow  your  nose  and  do  the  same  as  Jubilee. 
'Arriet,  'ave  I  got  to  tell  you  twice?  Eddard  Rex,  I 
don't  want  to  smack  you  again  unless  I'm  forced  to  it. 
That's  your  little  lot,  Ben,  an'  I'm  glad  you've  come  'ome 
to  'elp  me  keep  'em.  I've  'ad  enough  to  it !" 

Surrounded  by  his  surging  family,  the  alleged  Mr. 
Bliss  looked  the  picture  of  misery.  Mr.  Limbird,  his 
handkerchief  jammed  into  his  mouth,  regarded  the  pic- 
ture from  a  distant  corner. 

"Look  well,  don't  'em?"  demanded  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"Picture  of  health !"  murmured  the  miserable  victim. 

"And  grown?"  inquired  the  laundress. 

"Grown  out  of  knowledge,"  stammered  the  victim. 

"But  you'd  'ave  recognised  their  sweet  faces  anywhere, 
wouldn't  you?"  cried  Mrs.  Bliss. 

The  person  appealed  to  snatched  his  cap  and  started 
for  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going  to,  Ben  ?"  Mrs.  Bliss  demanded. 

"To  buy  the  children  sugarsticks,"  was  the  mumbled 
reply. 

"You'd  forget  to  come  back,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  "for 
nine  years,  p'raps,  this  time.  'Aven't  you  already  took 
an'  stopped  away  for  two?  I'm  ashamed  of  you!"  She 
darted  through  the  paper-covered  door  of  communication 
as  she  spoke,  and  returned  instantly,  carrying  a  vocal 
bundle.  "Look  at  that!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  it  up 
to  the  inspection  of  the  unhappy  stout  seaman. 


IO2  A  Sailor's  Home 

Mr.  Limbird  could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  "That's 
my  legal  child,  'Annah  Limbird,  aged  eight  months !"  he 
bellowed,  "an*  you're  an  impostor,  Cap'n  Honeyblow !" 

"Prove  it !"  said  the  other  heavily.    "Prove  it !" 

"You've  owned  all  these  other  kids  as  yours,  'aven't 
you  ?"  yelled  Mr.  Limbird. 

"You  heard  me!"  said  the  other  sourly. 

"Well,  they  all  belong  to  the  neighbours,  from  the 
baker's  Polly,  down,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss  cheerfully.  "I 
borrowed  'em  to  unmask  you  with,  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  an' 
I've  done  it.  Run  along  'ome  now,  Polly,  an'  you  others. 
I'll  give  you  a  penny  each  to-morrow,"  she  added,  as  her 
impromptu  family  trooped  out  at  the  door.  "As  for  me 
an'  Bliss,  ourn  was  wot  the  books  call  a  childless  onion ; 
but  I've  bin  married  to  Limbird,  there,  goin'  on  twelve 
months."  She  dandled  the  baby  with  legally  justifiable 
pride,  as  she  added :  "As  to  this  game  wot  you've  been 
playin',  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  it  won't  wash  no  more  than  a 
fancy  zephyr.  Give  it  up,  an'  me  and  Limbird  '11  'elp 
you  all  we  can.  Not  that  you  deserve  'elp,  goin'  away 
an'  leavin*  poor  Miss  'Arriet  a  widow  for  close  on  two 
years,  and  now  that  you've  come  back  denying  of  'er  to 
'er  face.  But  she's  a  kind  'art,  an'  maybe  she'll  forgive 
you  all  the  sorrow  you've  caused  'er  an'  take  you  back 
again." 

"I  don't  want  her  forgiveness !"  said  Captain  Honey- 
blow  stubbornly.  "She  ought  to  be  begging  mine  on  her 
bended  knees,  if  the  truth  was  known.  And  as  for  sor- 
row, she's  had  the  Doctor  to  dry  her  tears.  He  seemed 
willing  enough  last  time  I  set  eyes  on  him !" 

"We  can't  always  trust  to  our  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss. 
"If  I  'ad,  where  would  Limbird  'a'  been  by  now?  An' 
if  Mrs.  Honeyblow's  as  fond  of  Doctor  Venables  as  you 
say,  whv  didn't  they  risk  it  an'  get  married?  I'm  goin' 
up  to  The  Vineyard  presently  with  some  linen,  an'  you'd 
best  come,  too.  You  can  carry  t'ie  baby — she  wants  a  bit 


A  Sailor's  Home  103 

o'  fresh  air — an'  Limbird  can  carry  the  basket." 

Captain  Honeyblow,  to  give  him  the  proper  title  he  had 
so  persistently  abjured,  gave  in,  and  after  some  smarten- 
ing on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bliss,  who  had  made  up  her  mind 
as  to  her  plan  of  campaign,  the  trio  set  out.  It  was  a  fine 
evening  early  in  May,  the  hawthorn-hedges  were  in  blos- 
som, and  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  in  a  most  attractive  dove- 
coloured  tea-gown  trimmed  with  lace,  was  sitting  on 
the  verandah  with  a  novel  in  her  lap. 

"She  must  'a'  had  all  them  light-coloured  things  made 
ready  an'  waitin',"  said  Mrs.  Bliss  incautiously. 

"Why,  Hannah!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  coming 
down  the  verandah  steps  as  the  party  emerged  from  the 
laurel  avenue  and  approached  the  house. 

"We're  mixin'  bis'ness  with  pleasure,  'm,"  said  Mrs. 
Bliss,  indicating  her  three  companions.  "Lor'!  what's 
the  use  of  nursin'  a  grudge !  An'  the  baby's  quite  took 
to  Ben.  'E  carries  'er  beautiful,  don't  'e?" 

And  she  proudly  indicated  the  shrinking  form  of  the 
supposed  Mr.  Bliss,  whose  flaming  beard  and  redder 
countenance  were  partly  concealed  behind  the  draperies 
of  his  infant  burden. 

"I'm  exceedingly — I  hope — oh!  wouldn't  they? — I 
mean  your  husband  and — the  other — round  to  the  kitchen 
door — beer ?"  stammered  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"They're  much  be'olden,  Miss  'Arriet,"  said  the  wash- 
erwoman translating  the  invitation.  "Ain't  it  pretty  to 
see  'em!"  she  continued,  as  the  supposed  Mr.  Bliss  and 
his  companions  withdrew.  "Him  an'  Limbird's  like 
brothers." 

"But  does  he  know — have  you  broken  the  awful 
news?"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow.  "How  did  he — how  did 
he  take  it?"  she  continued,  as  Mrs.  Bliss  nodded  in 
reply. 

"Not  a  cuss !"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  wiping  her  eyes.  "An* 
then  'is  be'ayviour  at  meals!  'E's  that  refined  with  'is 


104  A  Sailor's  Home 

knife,  it  fair  frightens  me.  O'  course,  'avin'  bin  brought 
up  by  a  good  mother,  I  wipes  me  mouth  on  the  table- 
cloth ;  but  on'y  fancy  Ben  askin'  for  a  serviette !" 

"Impossible!"  choked  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"They're  things  I  wash,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  "but  should 
scorn  to  use — an'  I  thought  I'd  'ave  dropped  when  'e 
did  it.  An'  worse  an'  worse,  he've  borrored  the  money 
from  Limbird  to  buy  a  tooth-brush — says  it's  one  o'  the 
indispensable  necessities  o'  life.  Fancy  Ben !" 

"Hannah !"  hissed  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  clutching  the  laun- 
dress's arm.  "Suppose  it  isn't — it  isn't  Ben,  after  all?" 

"That's  what  I  keep  on  a-sayin'  to  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Bliss  with  a  sigh;  "but  use  is  every  think.  If  Cap'n 
Honeyblow  had  seen  Doctor  Venables  take  a  cockchafer 
out  o'  your  'air  every  day  for  a  year,  'e  wouldn't  'ave  let 
a  thing  like  that  drive  'im  from  'is  'ome.  Per'raps,  if 
'e  could  see  it  done  agin,  an'  realise  'ow  little  there  reely 
was  in  it,  it  'ud  bring  'im  back  to  'is  right  mind.  That 
is,  supposin'  Ben  is  'im." 

"Oh,  Hannah,  when  I  remember  some  of  the  things 
that  boy  said  to-day,  I  begin  to  believe  it !  No,  he  isn't 

here ;  I  sent  him  over  to  the  Doctor's  to  be  questioned 

Why — why,"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  "here  is  Dr.  Ven- 
ables and  the  boy  with  him!  The  Doctor  has  dropped 
in  to  tea  as " 

"Usual,"  volunteered  Mrs.  Bliss. 

"As  a  little  change,"  amended  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"It's  too  early  for  cockchafers,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  "or 
you  might  'ave  the  'ole  thing  'appen  again,  an'  put  it 
fairly  to  the  test  whether  my  Ben  is  your  'usband  or  your 
'usband  is  my  Ben?  Would  a  cochroach  do?  There's 
'caps  in  your  kitchen." 

Mrs.  Honeyblow  gave  a  little  scream. 

"Cockchafer  an'  cockroach,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss  encour- 
agingly. "It  begins  the  same." 

"But  it  wouldn't  end  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Honeyblow, 


A  Sailor's  Home  105 

"for  I  should  die  of  it." 

"Pretend,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  illuminated  by  an 
idea.  "Let  on  as  you  'ave  a  wasp  or  beadle  or  a  cater- 
pillar in  your  'air,  an*  ask  Doctor  Venables  to  take  it 
out  for  you.  An'  I'll  manage  so  as  my  Ben  an'  your 
Cap'n  'Oneyblow  sees  the  'ole  thing.  If  he's  Ben,  he'll 
take  it  smilin',  an'  if  he's  Cap'n  Honeyblow,  he'll  take  it 
ravin'.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  fetch  them  both  round  from 
the  kitchen." 

And  Mrs.  Bliss  disappeared  upon  this  errand,  as  Mrs. 
Honeyblow  went  nervously  to  meet  the  Doctor,  with 
whose  long  shadow  Tommy's  shorter  and  stumpier  ad- 
umbration moved  in  unison  across  the  lawn. 

"My  dear  lady,"  Doctor  Venables  said  as  he  greeted 
Mrs.  Honeyblow,  "I  have  put  a  series  of  the  most  search- 
ing questions  to  the  boy,  and  came  over  thinking  you 
would  be  anxious  to  learn  the  results  of  my  informal 
cross-examination  as  speedily  as  possible.  I  have  ascer- 
tained from  the  boy  .  .  .  By  the  way,  I  have  always 
understood  from  you  that  Mrs.  Bliss  was  a  most  es- 
timable woman?" 

"Quite  so.  Oh — undoubtedly!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Honeyblow.  i 

"I  grieve  to  have  to  tell  you,"  said  the  Doctor  gravely, 
"that  her  conduct  has  been,  in  some  respects,  most  blam- 
able.  The  real  reason  of  her  husband's  sudden  departure 
from  home  was — I  blush  to  say  it — that,  on  returning 
unexpectedly  one  day,  he  saw  her  being  kissed  by  an- 
other man  in  the  garden.  Reprehensible!" 

"Did — did  the  boy  describe  the — the  other  man  ?"  stam- 
mered Mrs.  Honeyblow. 

"No,"  said  the  Doctor.  "My  dear  lady,  what — what 
has  occurred?" 

For  Mrs.  Honeyblow  screamed  aloud,  and  putting  both 
less  fashion,  round  and  round  the  lawn.  "Oh!"  she 
hands  over  her  ears,  commenced  to  run  in  a  jerky,  aim- 


io6  A  Sailor's  Home 

screamed.  "Oh!  Take  it  out!  take  it  out!  The  cock- 
chafer— ugh!  Caught  in  my  hair!" 

"Don't  be  alarmed!  Certainly — with  pleasure,"  said 
the  Doctor,  "if  you  could  manage  to  stand  still."  But 
Mrs.  Honeyblow  kept  on  running,  and  the  Doctor  was 
obliged  to  run  after  her.  "Where  is  it?  I  don't  see 
it — where  is  it?"  The  medical  gentleman  panted  as  he 
gained  on  and  overtook  the  quarry.  "Why — why — you 
don't  mean  to  say " 

"There  isn't  any  cockchafer,"  said  Mrs.  Honeyblow. 
Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  flushed  cheeks  became  her,  her 
roguish  smile  was  irresistible.  The  Doctor  lost  his  head 
and  kissed  her.  And  as  the  bashful  salute  took  effect  on 
the  lady's  ear,  a  blood-curdlin'  roar  reverberated  in  the 
ears  of  the  couple,  and  the  Doctor,  turning  hastily,  be- 
held a  stout,  red-bearded  seaman  who  foamed  with  in- 
dignation, held  back  from  wreaking  violence  on  his 
own  dignified  person  by  a  square-headed  man  who  smiled 
from  ear  to  ear,  and  a  small  boy  who  manifested  equal 
enjoyment  of  the  situation,  while  the  culpable  Mrs.  Bliss, 
whose  supposed  lapse  from  propriety  he  had  just  dealt 
with  so  severely,  clapped  her  hands  in  the  background. 

"You  villain — you  sneaking,  tallow-faced  villain !"  bel- 
lowed Captain  Honeyblow,  "have  I  caught  you  at  it 
again  ?" 

"Not  again,  Daniel!"  cried  Mrs.  Honeyblow,  hanging 
on  her  husband's  upraised  arm,  as  Mrs.  Bliss,  overcome 
by  the  success  of  her  ruse,  relapsed  into  hysterics.  "There 
really  was  a  cockchafer  before,  and  you  were  a  jealous, 
hasty-tempered  man  to  go  off  like  that — without  asking 
any  questions !" 

"I'll  ask  one  now,"  said  the  unmasked  Captain,  turn- 
ing a  truth-compelling  glare  upon  the  Doctor.  "Have 
you  ever  kissed  my  wife  before  to-day?" 

"Captain  Honeyblow,"  replied  Dr.  Venables,  "upon  my 
honour,  I  have  never  kissed  your  wife.  The  lady  whom 


A  Sailor's  Home  107 

you  saw  me — ahem ! — kiss  just  now  has  been  a  widow — 
a  widow,  sir,  for  two  years,  and  the  salute  was — a — • 
the  first  I  have  ventured  to  offer.  Did  I  do  it,  I  ask 
you,  as  if  I  were  used  to  it?" 

"No,"  admitted  Captain  Honeyblow.  "To  do  you  jus- 
tice, it  was  a  dashed  bad  shot.  Somebody,  kick  that  in- 
fernal boy  and  find  out  what  he's  dancing  for !" 

"Because  I've  saved  a  real  skipper,  after  all !"  crowed 
Tommy. 

The  heads  of  four  seamen  rose  up  on  the  other  side 
of  the  garden  fence.  Three  faces  wore  expressions  of 
great  joy,  the  sentiments  written  upon  the  fourth  vere 
more  ambiguous. 

"Well,  I'm  blowed !"  said  Mr.  Wimper. 

"Ain't  this  a  joyful  day,  Cap'n  'Oneyblow,  sir?"  said 
Mr  Mix. 

"With  respects  to  that  reward,  lady,  for  findin'  your 
dear  'usban'?" 

"Don't  yer  make  no  mistake,  ole  man,"  said  Tommy. 
"The  bloke  what  found  Cap'n  'Oneyblow — found  'im 
an'  brought  'im  'ome — was  me,  an'  don't  yer  make  no 
mistake  about  it." 

"Boy  speaks  the  truth,"  said  the  Captain  gruffly. 


VI 
AS  PLAIN  AS  PRINT 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  BASEMENT 

I  WAS  in  the  Fif  Stannard  when  I  left  Bord  Schole 
and  went  into  Service  as  Paje  at  a  fust  class  'Ouse 
where  mother  Chared  and  Father  'ad  bin  Hed  Coachy  but 
took  to  Liquer  when  Lord  Rejinald  toke  to  motorcarse 
Bern'  too  nuffy  for  to  lern  to  Drive  an  injin  and  Too 
Stout  in  Figger  for  a  Shofure. 

It  was  Chesterfield  Squair  corner  'ouse  with  the  Dub- 
ble  Areea.  They  kep*  2  pare  of  Calves  with  Flowery 
Heds  and  a  Butler  in  Plane  Close  much  more  like  a 
Bishop  than  the  One  what  used  to  call.  My  liv'ry  was 
Riffle  Green.  Gilt  Buttons  8  rowse.  Mother  said  I  was 
as  like  Her  Brother  Alfred  what  'ad  bin  an  Orseguard 
as  Two  Pease  Excep  for  the  Ighth  an'  the  mustash.  An 
I  run  Erands  for  the  2  Pare  of  Calves  to  get  Brown 
and  Limbird  to  tell  me  what  they  Eat  in  Erly  Youth  to 
make  em  run  up  to  6  feet  2.  Also  rub  Musterd  on  my 
Upper  Lip  at  Night  by  Advice  of  a  Silly  Ass  with  a 
large  one  what  walked  out  with  the  Second  Housemaid, 
But  beyond  Blisterse  no  Risult,  excep  that  Her  Ladyship 
Rung  for  the  Housekeeper  an  sed  my  Blood  was  Planely 
Out  of  Order  an  would  Mrs.  Smale  see  to  it  that  the 
Boy  got  a  Cooling  Doase.  Wich  she  did  the  old  Cat,  with 
Jollup  overnite  and  Epsum  Salts  in  the  Morning. 

When  I  Come  on  Duty  again  there  was  a  Blank  in 
108 


As  Plain  As  Print  109 

the  Ouseold.  Joliffe  the  Parler  Maid  Having  Got  the 
Sack  for  Answers  and  Unpunktualness.  A  New  Gal 
Arived  and  I  Opened  the  Side  Door  out  of  Curiosaty 
it  being  the  Duty  of  one  of  the  Females  on  the  Staff. 
I  piped  her  Getting  Out  of  the  Tacksi  and  sor  her 
chuck  the  Shofure  a  Half  Dollar  as  Cool  an  Easy  as 
Her  Ladyship  Herself.  Call  Swells  what  you  like  they 
ave  a  way  of  Doing  Things  as  takes  the  bun. 

"I'm  the  New  Parler  maid.  Tell  one  of  the  Servants 
to  Bring  in  my  Bags  and  Things,"  says  she  quite  calm 
and  cool. 

"All  Righto,"  Says  I.  "Suppose  you  Do  it  Yourself 
Miss?" 

She  stared  down  at  Me  with  the  Biggest  Blue  Eyes 
I  ever  see  out  of  a  Picture  on  a  Hoardin  and  then  the 
Puzzled  look  cleered  off  and  she  begin  to  Larf.  Gals  in 
London  Service  generally  Fall  off  about  the  dominose 
but  the  New  Parler  Maidse  teeth  was  the  Prettiest  and 
Whitest  I  ever  see  out  of  a  Dentisses  Door  Case.  I 
brought  in  the  bag  and  a  lite  Cane  trunk.  As  Mrs.  Smale 
Come  down  all  in  a  Flutter  with  her  And  to  her  Art. 

"Oh  your — Oh  my  goodness,  I've  bin  hopin'  you  didn't 
really  mean" — she  begins. 

"Shut  up  Smaley,"  ses  the  New  Parler  Maid  givin'  Her 
a  Kiss.  "Not  Bifore  the  Boy.  Little  Pitcherse  you 
know" — an  she  larfed  like  music. 

"Ow  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  Jones !"  ses  Mrs. 
Smale  in  a  kind  of  faint  raje,  shakin  her  Cap  ribbons 
an  closin  her  Eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  mam  and  I  hope  you'll  overlook  it 
this  time,"  says  Jones. 

"If  you'll  Come  this  way  I'll  show  you  your  Room,"  ses 
Mrs.  Smale  and  I  never  Know  the  Old  Gal  so  Grashus 
Bifore.  I  piped  'em  from  the  Landin  an  if  she  wasn't 
Helping  Jones  to  Carry  her  Things  strike  me  indipen- 
dent.  When  Jones  Came  down  to  join  the  serkle  in  the 


no  A  Sailor's  Home 

Servants  Hall  she  looked  the  Tastiest  bit  of  Frock  you 
could  immajin  in  her  Black  Dress  and  Muslin  Cap  and 
Apron.  The  2  Pair  of  Calves  was  knocked  out  o  Their- 
selves  and  Morris  the  Butler  what  was  a  Widower  and 
said  e  ad  ad  a  daghter  just  like  Jones  what  died  in 
early  Youth  was  a  Precious  lot  too  fatherly.  The  cook 
told  him  so  to  his  Face,  and  judgin'  by  the  grisly  bits  she 
carve  for  Jones  at  the  six  o'clock  cold  meat  tea  you  could 
see  what  Mother  calls  a  bowl  of  contempshun  was  Come 
into  the  Ouse'old.  Me  bein  called  to  Duty  by  a  tele- 
graphic dubble  nock  and  ring  heerd  no  more  than  snaks 
as  You  Might  say  but  Jones  Was  Not  Aving  the  Wust 
of  it  When  I  lef. 

I  Took  Up  the  wire  to  is  Lordship  As  was  Dressin 
for  a  Early  Theatre  Dinner  manigments  Aving  requested 
no  Lait  Arivals  as  a  Fust  Nights  Sho.  His  Lordship  red 
the  messige  an  Went  Plunjin  Acrost  the  Landing  to 
Her  Ladyships  Room  with  is  Braces  ennyhow  an  is  Air 
Brush  strate  down  over  is  Eyes. 

"Goodness  Me  Redgy,"  i  Herd  Her  Ladyship  Esclaim, 
"You  Look  like  a  Prehysteric  Peep.  What  has  Hap- 
pined?" 

"The  Matter  is  that  My  Youngest  Sister  Susan  As 
Bolted  From  Catanach  Cassel,"  Cries  His  Lordship,  Cat- 
anach  Cassel  Bein  His  Lordships  Famalys  Sect  in  the 
Higlands.  "This  is  From  My  Father  to  Ask  if  She  Has 
Took  Refuge  with  me?  The  Hard-mowthed  Little 
Dewle !"  Nise  Words  For  a  Peer  to  a  Dress  to  His  Sis- 
ter! "Is.1  Dead  Against  Marrying  Gowpen  And  Swares 
She  Wont  Have  Ennybody  But  Barringley,  a  Porper 
Captain  in  a  Higland  Reggiment." 

"But  Neerly  sevin  Fete  High  and  as  Handsum  as 
Aunty  Nowse,"  Says  Her  Ladyship  With  a  sigh  I  should 
Not  have  Herd  if  my  eer  Had  not  Bin  Close  to  the  Key- 
hoale.  "And  Lord  Gowpen  Is  a  Dredful  Little  Bounder 
with  Freckles  as  Large  as  Sixpenses,  Marquis  or  No 


As  Plain  As  Print  in 

Marquis.  And  I  Suppose  Poor  Susan  Has  a  Hart.  Most 
of  Us  Hav  When  We're  Yung,"  and  Her  Ladyship  Sied 
Again.  And  I  Only  Got  out  of  the  Way  as  the  Door 
Bust  Open  and  His  Lordship  Stroad  Back  Across  the 
Passage  Roaring. 

"He  Hav  No  Runawayse  in  My  House.  If  she  Comes 
Here  Pack  Her  Back,  i  Forbid  You  to  Harber  her  Or 
Countenance  this  Centimentle  Nonsense  with  Barring- 
ley,"  an  the  Ole  Ouse  Shook  as  His  Lordship  Banged  the 
Door.  The  Noise  of  the  Chewmult  Ad  Penetrated  to  the 
Lower  Re j ions  and  i  was  Klosely  queshioned  in  the 
Servants  All.  But  i  kep  My  Own  Kounsel  an  Lett  on  to 
Nobody. 

Nex  Morning  I  ad  a  Chanst  of  Doin  a  Bit  of  Mash  on 
my  Own  for  I  Found  Jones  in  the  Drawrin  Room  with 
a  Duster  an  a  Fether  Broom  and  no  More  Noshun  Wot 
to  Do  with  Em  than  a  Pi  j  ion  with  a  Pastry  Roller.  I 
Did  Er  Job  for  Er  an  "You  are  a  Nise  little  Beggar !" 
says  Jone  an  Give  me  a  Arf  Dollar  all  at  onse.  An  Wile 
I  did  Er  Dustin  She  Got  the  Blotter  an  Eld  it  to  the 
Mankle  Mirrer  &  Red  Part  of  a  Letter  His  Lordship  Ad 
Bin  Riting.  "My  Dear  Susan  i  Am  Moar  Greaved  & 
Shocked  Than  i  Can  Express  at  the  News  of  Your  Ri- 
belliuos  Conduck  An  Your  Sudden  Flite  From  the  Shel- 
ter of  Our  Fathers  Rufe.  .  .  ." 

"Old  Ard   Young  Woman,"   i   says   "That  aint  the. 
Strite  Gaim  watto."    Jones  give  me  a  Larfin  look  over 
Her  sholder  &  Her  Eyes  was  as  Bloo  as  Sum  of  the 
Stones  in  Her  Ladyshipse  Rings. 

"Its  to  me,"  she  says,  "My  name  is  Susan,"  &  larfs  in 
that  luvly  way  She  Had.  "i  Wish  He  ad  Roat  Sum  Moar 
wile  E  were  about  it !" 

"Wot  Good"  says  i  "when  He  Dont  know  Her  adress. 
And  its  No  use  Her  Cumming  Heer  bikause  He  rifuses 
to  Harber  her  Under  His  Roof,  i  Herd  him  say 
so." 


112  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Wont  he?"  says  Jones  &  larfed  so  sweet  &  look  so 
Hevnly  while  She  dun  it  that  i  Had  to  throw  the  bits  of 
the  Jappanese  China  Vawse  what  i  Broke  in  my  Emoshun 
in  the  Dustbin  on  the  Q.T. 

"I  say"  I  ses  Breethin  as  Loud  as  a  Broken  Down  Cab 
Orse  "when's  your  evenin  Out?" 

"Thursday,"  ses  she. 

"If  you  aint  suited"  i  ses  "I'm  willin.  Come  Round 
to  Tee  at  Mothers  &  I'll  stand  Two  Riturns  on  the 
Bus  to  Putney  Brig.  You're  the  Nisest  bit  o  Frock  i  ever 
see  &  now  the  Cats  out  of  the  Banbox." 

"So  you're  in  luv  with  me  Buttonse !"  ses  She  smiling. 

"Strite  I  am,"  i  says.    "Don't  let  it  Make  you  Prowd." 

"Ah  but  i'm  Ingaged,"  ses  Jones,  "&  my  Yung  Man  is 
Cumming  to  Take  Me  Out  on  Thursday." 

"He'll  'ave  to  talk  to  me  Fust,"  i  says  a  doubling  up 
my  Arm  to  bring  up  the  Mussle.  "Mind  that,  Miss 
Jones." 

But  on  Thursday  When  Joneses  Young  Man  Came 
Ringing  at  the  Side  Door  &  Askin  for  Her  it  seemed  like 
Temtin  Provadence  to  it  a  Man  so  Menny  sizes  Larger 
than  Life. 

"Ullo  I  Say!"  says  I  "wot  are  You?" 

"I'm  a  Footman,"  says  He  lookin  Down  "an  I've  Come 
to  take  My  Young  Woman  Out  Walking." 

"Is  the  other  of  you  arf  your  ighth?"  says  i  Cheeky 
like,  "Because  if  One  of  You  stood  on  the  Other  Wun's 
Hed  there  Wouldn't  be  no  more  Trubble  about  Sendin 
Messiges  to  Mars." 

Blest  if  e  Didn't  tip  me  a  Dollar. 

"You  take  my  Message  to  Miss  Jones,"  says  He,  a  smil- 
ing and  twisting  'is  spikky  yeller  mustash.  "Her  Young 
Man  is  Waiting  On  the  Door-step — as  arranged.  That's 
all." 

That  was  all — as  concerning  my  Unappy  Weekness  For 
Jones.  A  Footman  neerly  7  feet  igh  with  a  mustash  oo 


As  Plain  As  Print  113 

could  stand  against.  Mother  could  never  ave  fansied  a 
Daughter-in-Law  What  took  Such  Care  of  Her  Nails, 
she  as  offen  told  me  so  Preaps  all  is  for  the  Best. 

Three  Munthse  Jones  was  With  us,  and  no  Newse  of 
Lady  Susan  ever  Came  to  And.  I  Herd  is  Lordship  Say 
She  Could  Not  Ave  Left  England  bikause  Barringley 
the  Porper  Captain  in  a  Higland  Reggiment  rimained 
at  is  Post.  The  Markis  of  Gowpen  got  Ingaged  to  An- 
other Lady  with  No  Objeckshun  to  Freckles,  and  when 
i  Told  Jones  she  Clap  er  Hands  &  give  me  Ten  Shillinse 
&  she  told  me  that  Mrs.  Smale  Was  Going  to  Interview 
Her  Ladyship  in  the  Mornin  Rume  at  12  sharp  &  if  I 
felt  intristed  in  Heering  News  of  Her  I  Would  be  in 
my  Usual  Place  at  the  keyole ! 

Sure  enuf  the  Old  Lady  Russled  up  Nex  Day.  Wot 
was  my  surprise  to  Ear  Her  Tell  My  Lady  that  the  New 
Parler  Maid  What  Ad  Give  such  satisfaction  Wished 
to  Leeve  to  Get  Married  &  Bein  Such  a  Good  Yung  Girl 
&  Without  a  Mother  Living  &  Mrs.  Smale  Aving  Known 
Her  sinse  a  child  Mrs  S  beg  leave  to  entertain  the  Yung 
Cupple  at  Brekfast  in  the  Housekeeperse  Room. 

"Certainly  Smale,"  ses  Her  Ladyship.  "I  have  never 
seen  the  Young  Woman  Except  at  a  Distance  but  sinse 
she  is  so  Diserving  the  Brekfast  shall  be  Here.  Order  a 
Nise  Plain  Wedding  Cake  &  make  the  Occasion  as  festiv 
as  Possable — i  understand  She  is  a  Favourite  in  the 
Servants  All." 

i  Neerly  Busted  my  Buttons  Orf  at  that  the  Other 
Wimmen  ating  Jones  like  Pisen,  but  Mrs  Smale  Curtsey 
&  thank  Her  Ladyship  in  Joneses  Name  &  Her  Lady- 
ship say  she  will  Make  a  Point  of  Looking  In  &  Wishing 
the  Young  Cupple  Joy. 

"i  Hope  the  Yung  Man  is  Rispectable,"  says  she. 

"Oh  quite,  your  Ladyship,"  says  Mrs.  Smale,  Smiling 
Herself  into  Creeses  and  Then  to  My  Surprise  &  Delite 
the  Old  Gal  Beg  Leeve  to  Give  notice  Aving  Ditermined 


H4  A  Sailor's  Home 

to  Retire  On  Her  Savings  to  A  Little  Ouse  at  Forrist 
Gait.  She  Ment  to  Leeve  the  Morning  Jones  was  Mar- 
ried. She  was  as  Diggerfied  And  jenteel  as  a  Telegraf 
Post  &  Her  Ladyship  sed  she  Could  Not  But  Consent  but 
Deeply  Rigretted  So  Werthy  A  Servant  &  Giv  the  Old 
Gal  a  Karbunkle  Broach.  N.B.  Well  She  Knoed  She 
Would  Get  the  Sak  over  What  Was  About  to  Cum  Out. 

That  Weddin  of  Joneses  Was  a  Regler  Beeno.  All  the 
Staff  Ad  Bin  Ast  &  Gave  Presints,  the  2  Pair  of  Calves 
Galantly  Clubing  Fundse  to  Buy  a  Plated  Tost  Rack. 
The  Cook  come  out  Strong  in  the  Cake  Dipartment.  i 
Spent  A  Doller  On  a  Lais  Vale  for  Jones  &  a  Pare  of 
Wite  Cotton  Gluves  For  Myself.  All  the  wimmen  Cride 
like  Leeky  Water  Cartse  During  the  Sacred  Seremony. 
Jones  was  a  Vision  Of  Buty  in  a  Plane  Traveling  Dress 
&  Didn't  the  Long  Curit  Jump  when  the  Bride  and 
Bridegrum  Sined  the  Redgister  Oh  No ! 

Joneses  Husband  Shut  Him  Up  Sharp,  wisperin  Sum- 
thing  in  is  Large  Red  Eer  &  Back  We  all  Droav  in  the 
Privit  Omnibus  to  Brekfast.  i  never  see  a  Niser  Spred. 
The  Caik  was  a  Triumph  of  Genis  &  His  Lordship  Sent 
Word  for  y-t  a  Duzzen  of  His  Best  Shampagne  To 
Be  Used.  The  Butler  Proposed  the  Bride  &  Bride- 
grum in  A  Speech  What  Brought  the  Teers  into  His  Eyes 
But  When  He  Wanted  For  to  Kiss  Jones,  Joneses  Hus- 
band Took  the  Needle. 

"I've  put  up  With  a  Good  Deal,"  I  Herd  Him  say, 
"but  When  it  Cumse  to  My  Wife  Being  Kissed  By  a 
Butler  On  Her  Wedding  Day  I  Draw  The  Line  by 
Gingo !"  &  He  Twisted  His  Yeller  Mustash  &  just  Then 
in  Cumse  my  Lord  &  Lady  Redginald  &  Everybody  Get 
Up. 

"Please  Charge  Your  Glasses,"  ses  His  Lordship  Tryin 
To  Find  His  Eyeglass  Wich  ad  Got  Down  Inside  is 
Weskit :  "Lady  Redginald  &  Myself  Ave  Great  Pleasure 
in  Wishing  Goy  to  Jones  &  Her  Husb — Why,  Dammy 


As  Plain  As  Print  115 

Barringley,  its  You!"  And  just  then  Lady  Redginald 
Gave  a  Shreek. 

"Susan!"  she  screems.  "Susan!"  And  She  &  Jones 
Rushes  into  Eech  Otherse  Armse  &  Bustes  Out  Crying 
As  His  Lordship  &  Captin  Barringley  Glares  at  Eech 
Other  Like  2  Mad  Bullse. 

"Smale  you  old  Meddler,  This  is  Your  Work,"  says 
His  Lordship  &  the  Old  Gal  ups  &  says  it  is  &  Wotse 
Moar  She's  prowd  On  it  An  She  Never  Shold  Rigret 
Helpin  The  Deer  child  She'd  Nussed  To  a  Good  Usband. 

"Good  .  .  .  I've  got  my  Own  Opinion  about 
That,"  says  Is  Lordship. 

"Make  up  Your  Mind  Which  You're  Coin  to  Do," 
says  the  Captin  Twistin  His  Mustash,  "Hit  me  Or  Shake 
Hands.  I'm  Reddy  For  You  Either  Way  &  if  I  Don't 
Mistake  you  Found  Out  at  Eaton  Which  Of  us  Was  Best 
Man." 

"Do  You  Expect  the  Duke  to  Overlook  this  Skandelous 
Elopement,  this  Disgraceful  Conceelment  &  the  Clandes- 
tine Marrige  Wich  Crowns  The  Whole?"  Dimands  His 
Lordship  as  Lady  Susan  lets  Go  of  Lady  Redginald  & 
Takes  Old  of  the  Captain's  Arm. 

"I  came  straight  to  My  Brotherse  House,"  Says  She 
With  a  Prowd  Look  of  Defianse,  "i  Hav  Lived  Under 
His  Roof  For  the  Last  3  Munthse,  My  Husband  Has 
Visited  Me  Here  &  Here  My  Wedding  Took  Place  With 
Your  Consent.  You  cant  Deny  it!" 

"No  By  Gingo  i  cant,"  Says  His  Lordship,  "i  pade  For 
the  Cake  &  I  shall  Have  to  Pay  the  Piper.  Give  me  a 
Kiss,  &  We'll  Order  the  hauto  Brooam  to  Take  You 
both  to  the  Stashun.  Come  upstairs,  Young  People"  .  .  . 
i  Herd  Him  Say  to  the  Captain  in  a  Wisper  As  He  Drew 
the  Gallant  Bridegroom  into  the  Smoaking  Room  "In 
For  a  Peny  in  For  a  Pound.  How  Mutch  Shall  i  Draw 
it  For,  Barry  Old  Man?" 

Lady  Susan  Sent  For  Me  Bifore  the  Cupple  Left  For 


n6  A  Sailor's  Home 

the  Kontinet  &  Gave  Me  a  Kiss  and  Suvring.  i  kep 
the  Suvring  over  a  Week  &  if  My  Yung  Woman  Ever 
Asts  Why  the  Lef  Side  of  My  Fase  is  Barred  off  From 
the  Public  i  will  tell  Her  Strate.  There  Are  Sum  Things 
A  Man  Never  Forgets  &  Jones  Was  My  Ferst  Love. 
N.B.  i  mean  Lady  Susan. 


VII 
THE  OLDEST  INHABITANT 

A  STORY  FOR  BIG  GIRLS  AND  BOYS 
I 

<CTF  we'd  been  alive  in  those  times  when  they  unheaded 

JL  people  with  axes  for  bein'  tr'waitors  to  their  King 
and  countr'wy,"  remarked  Perto,  otherwise  Rupert,  aged 
nine,  to  Robina,  his  elder  by  a  year,  "I  shouldn't  be  at 
all  s'prised  if  we'd  been  dead  now."  He  paused  after  this 
utterance,  and  added,  "for  having  such  a  thing  as  Ger- 
man measles  when  we're  at  war  wif  Germany.  At  least, 
that's  what  the  Doctor  said  was  the  matter  wif  us  when 
we  came  out  all  over  spotty  'rwed,  and  after  they  made 
the  school  r'woom  into  a  Hospital- ward  with  sheets  made 
wet  in  pink  water  hung  over  the  doors,  and  you  and  me 
had  to  go  to  bed  there  with  a  new  nurse  to  look  after  us 
in  a  cr'wackly  cotton  fr'wock?" 

"You  mean  disheaded  and  axises,"  admonished  Robina, 
who  never  failed  to  correct  her  young  brother's  faulty 
English  when  it  jarred  upon  her  sensitive  ear,  "and  if 
you  put  in  the  w's  after  you  r's,  what  good  is  there  in 
pronunciating  the  r's  anyhow?  That's  what  mother 
would  say  to  you  if  she  were  here." 

"I  just  wish  she  was  here !"  aspirated  Perto,  changing 
his  mind  about  yawning,  and  signing  instead. 

"Then  you're  a  selfish  boy!"  said  Robina  decidedly, 
117 


n8  A  Sailor's  Home 

"don't  you  know  that  we're  in  this  place  because  when 
we  got  up  after  the  measles  had  gone  in — Dr.  Dolmege 
said  we  were  just  reeking  with  affection,  and  ought  to  be 
icerlated  until  our  germs  were  all  dead !" 

"'Inflection'  was  what  Dr.  Dolmege  said,"  corrected 
Perto,  assuming  for  the  nonce  the  role  of  a  precisian  in 
words. 

"It  means  the  same  thing,"  stated  Robina  promptly — 
"reeking  with  defection — and  mustn't  go  near  mother's 
room  for  fear  of  giving  the  German  measles  to  her  and 
the  new  baby." 

"I  shouldn't  have  cared  whether  I  gave  German  measles 
to  the  new  baby  or  not,"  announced  Perto,  scowling  as 
he  kicked  the  rail  of  his  chair.  "But  I  should  have  mind- 
ed giving  'em  to  mother." 

"Be  grateful  that  you're  icerlated,  then,"  said  Robina 
sententiously,  "or  you  would  have  liked  a  shot !" 

A  dismal  break  here  occurred  in  the  conversation.  The 
temporary  silence  was  filled  by  the  swishing  sound  of 
rain,  beating,  as  it  had  with  brief  intervals  beaten  for  a 
week,  against  the  latched  casements  of  Miss  Sarah  Ann 
Twigger's  cottage  at  Mold  End,  near  the  little  country 
town  of  Plashingford  in  Werkshire.  The  wind  also 
howled  and  moaned,  as  it  had  been  howling  and  moaning 
for  a  period  similarly  prolonged,  and  a  rusty-looking  la- 
burnum and  a  couple  of  apple-trees,  laden  with  very  sour- 
looking  apples  and  decorating  the  little  patch  of  soaked 
green  lawn  separated  by  a  wet  oak  fence  from  a  spread- 
ing expanse  of  boggy  ploughlands,  waved  their  branches 
as  though  in  despair. 

"If  they  must  icerlate  us,"  burst  from  Perto,  "why 
do  it  in  such  a  beastly  place  as  this  ? — where  it  r'wains  all 
the  time,  and  they  never  have  Flag-Days,  or  maroons — 
or  searchlights — or  Air-r'waids — and  nobody  never  tells 
you  anything  about  the  War,  though  we've  been  fighting 
the  Germans  for  ages  and  ages.  I  think  it's  r'wotten!' 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  119 

grumbled  the  boy.  "Why,  there  might  as  well  not  be  any 
War  at  all  on  !" 

"We  do  get  War-bread,  now  don't  we?"  demanded 
Robina,  "and  they  say  we're  to  have  War-rations  pre- 
sently, unless  the  War  stops  pretty  quick.  I  don't  quite 
know  what  they  are,  but  Miss  Twigger  says  the  shops 
won't  be  allowed  to  sell  any  more  peppermint  rock  or 
toffee."  She  added  as  Perto  emitted  a  low  groan,  "And 
the  postman  comes  round  in  khaki  on  Thursdays  and 
Saturdays — and  doesn't  come  at  all  on  Sundays — and 
there's  going  to  be  a  Penny  Reading  at  the  Common  Re- 
crimination Rooms  for  the  Benefit  of  British  Prisoners  in 
Germany — and  a  Dramatic  Entertainment  at  the  Plash- 
borough  Public  Hall,  in  Aid  of  the  Red  Cross.  Don't  you 
remember  the  Entertainment  at  the  Concert  Hall  at 
Lewisham — where  we  all  dressed  up — and  incited — and 
you  did  'Little  Boy  Blue,'  and  I  was  'Little  Miss  Muffet' 
first,  and  did  a  hornpipe  with  a  skipping-rope — and  after- 
wards Britannia  ruling  the  Waves  in  the  Patriotic  Tab- 
loid at  the  end." 

Perto  assented  sulkily,  adding  with  rancour : 

"That's  how  we  came  to  catch  those  r'wetched  German 
measles.  They'd  had  'em  at  Miss  Skeffington's  Academy 
for  Backward  Boys — and  a  whole  row  of  }em  came.  I 
should  like  to  punch  their  beastly  heads  all  round  for 
spoiling  our  summer  holiday !" 

"You  forget  we'd  had  that  with  mother  at  Lyme  Regis 
in  July.  And  as  father's  business  isn't  looking  bright 
just  now,  because  of  the  War,"  said  Robina,  "wherever 
we  went  had  to  be  cheap,  and  this  was  the  very  cheapest 
and  healthiest  place  Dr.  Dolmege  could  recommend.  And 
he  knew  Miss  Twigger  to  be  eminently  respectable  be- 
cause she  had  housekeeped  for  an  old  lady-patient  of  his 
for  thirty  years,  and  been  pensioned  off  with  an  annuity, 
and " 

"Who  is  Anna  Nuity?"  demanded  Perto,  kneeling  in 


I2O  A  Sailor's  Home 

a  low  wicker  chair,  and  rubbing  his  nose  slowly  up  and 
down  against  the  cold,  damp  window-glass.  "The  ser- 
vant is  Emma  and  Miss  Twigger  doesn't  have  a  woman  in 
to  help  clean,  she  says — because  of  the  sugar  and  candles 
and  soap  and  tea,  and  there's  nobody  else  in  the  house 
but  me,  and  you,  and  Shackleton-Peary " 

"Don't  wake  him !"  said  Robina,  anxiously  glancing  at 
the  large  and  handsome  black-and-white  half-breed  Per- 
sian cat  vrho  lay  outstretched  in  a  galloping  attitude  in 
the  precise  middle  of  the  Berlin  woolwork  hearthrug, 
worked  by  Miss  Twigger's  deceased  employer,  and  rep- 
resenting a  basket  of  yellow  and  scarlet  tulips  on  a  ma- 
roon ground  bordered  by  a  green  vine-trellis,  in  front  of 
the  small  fireplace,  where,  the  day  being  wet  and  cold,  a 
fevr  sticks  of  apple  wood  burned.  "He's  been  simply 
awful  this  morning !  Playful,  Miss  Twigger  calls  it,"  she 
added,  "when  he  worries  other  people's  feet !" 

"He  bit  my  leg  yesterday,"  said  Perto  gloomily.  "He's 
always  biting  my  legs !  and  he  dabbed  at  me  through  the 
balusters  as  I  was  coming  downstairs  to  breakfast,  and 
nearly  scratched  out  my  eye !" 

"And  you  mustn't  hit  him  even  if  you  weren't  afraid," 
said  Robina,  "for  one  thing  because  his  mother  belongs 
to  a  salubriated  breed  of  cats  they  have  at  a  dreadfully 
grand  place  near  here,  called  Nunbury  Abbey,  and  for 
another,  because  Miss  Twigger  is  a  member  of  the  So- 
ciety for  the  Pervention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals." 

"There's  a  Society  for  the  Pervention  of  Cruelty  to 
Children,  isn't  there?"  demanded  Perto;  and  when  Ro- 
bina replied  that  she  believed  so,  he  retorted,  "I  know 
there  is.  And  if  that  Society  only  knew  how  this  cat  be- 
haved to  us — they'd  do  something  that  would  teach  him 
manners !" 

"Miss  Twigger  loves  him  as  the  apple  of  her  eye,"  ex- 
plained Robina.  "Emma  told  me  yesterday.  You  see, 
he  was  born  when  two  salubriated  exploring-men  were 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  121 

looking  for  the  Poles — and  nobody  knew  which  of  them 
would  be  the  first  to  get  there  and  hang  up  his  flag.  So, 
as  Miss  Twigger  wanted  her  kitten  to  have  a  distin- 
guished name — she  called  him  after  both  of  them.  Ugh ! 
you  disagreeable  beast!"  hissed  Robina,  glaring  at  the 
animal,  "I'd  baptize  you  all  over  again  and  call  you  the 
Kaiser,  if  I  could!" 

On  receipt  of  these  uncomplimentary  remarks,  Shackle- 
Peary  merely  purred  as  though  in  acknowledgment  of 
an  endearment,  stretched,  yawned,  rolled  over  on  his 
back,  exhibiting  a  furry  white  waistcoat  with  a  round 
black  patch  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  looking  languish- 
ingly  over  the  top  of  his  own  head  out  of  a  very  yellow 
pair  of  eyes  with  perpendicular  black  slits  down  the  mid- 
dle of  them,  extended  a  neat,  white-gloved  paw  invitingly 
towards  Robina,  who  shrank  back  in  alarm. 

"If  I  didn't  know  you,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  re- 
proachfully at  the  cat,  who  continued  to  leer  invitingly, 
"I  might  shake  hands.  But  I  do,  and  I  shan't,  so  there !" 

Shackleton-Peary,  thus  rebuffed,  reversed  himself  and 
rose,  revealing  himself  as  a  large  and  fully-developed  cat. 
He  wagged  his  tail  from  side  to  side,  and  the  black  stripes 
down  the  centre  of  his  yellow  eyes  grew  round  and  glar- 
ing. The  glare  grew  intent,  his  glittering  white  whiskers 
bristled  fiercely.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  choosing  be- 
tween Perto's  feet  and  Robina's,  and  Robina  hastily 
bounced  upon  the  sofa  and  tucked  hers  under  her  frock, 
squatting  Turkish-fashion,  while  Perto  drew  the  waste- 
paper  basket  towards  him  and  hastily  converted  it  into  an 
impromptu  shelter  for  his  menaced  calves.  Unhappily 
there  was  plenty  of  room  left  in  the  basket,  and  Shackle- 
ton-Peary,  in  the  firm  belief  that  Perto  had  invented  a 
new  and  entrancing  game  for  his  especial  delectation, 
dived  in,  and  ecstatically  embracing  Perto's  heather-mix- 
ture stockings  with  a  black  foreleg  and  a  white  one  armed 
with  formidable  claws,  applied  his  teeth  with  vigour. 


122  A  Sailor's  Home 


i  "Take  him  off !  Take  him  off !"  yelled  Perto,  who  had 
j  struggled  out  of  the  chair,  though  not  out  of  the  basket, 
and  now  hopped  over  the  Kidderminster  carpet  of  Miss 
Twigger's  best  parlour  in  the  vain  effort  to  release  him- 
self. 

"Wait  till  I  get  my  gloves !"  began  Robina,  reluctantly 
untucking  her  legs  and  sliding  off  the  sofa.  "He's  so 
frightfully  thorny  to  touch!"  Then  as  the  black  bushy 
fox-tail  of  Shackleton-Peary  waved  joyously  over  the 
edge  of  the  agitated  waste-paper  basket,  the  sisterly  de- 
sire to  rescue  Perto  overcome  Robina's  fear.  She  grasped 
the  tail,  set  her  teeth  and  tugged  hard.  Shackleton-Peary 
wow-wowed  and  fuffed,  but  continued  to  worry.  And  at 
this  juncture  Miss  Sarah  Ann  Twigger  entered  the  apart- 
ment. The  scene  that  her  spectacled  eyes  beheld  was  one 
well  calculated  to  rouse  the  fiery  resentment  of  a  member 
of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals. 
And  with  a  shrill  exclamation  of  horror  the  proprietress 
of  Shackleton-Peary  rushed  to  rescue  the  imaginary  vic- 
tim from  his  supposed  torturers. 

"You  ill-behaved,  wicked  little  boy !"  she  cried.  "You 
merciless  little  monster  of  a  girl!  Let  the  cat's  tail  go 
directly !" 

"Do  you  suppose  persons  are  going  to  allow  themselves 
to  be  chewed  and  scratched,"  demanded  Robina,  obeying, 
but  with  a  scarlet  countenance  of  defiant  indignation, 
"without  doing  anything  to  prevent  it?" 

"Just  to  please  your  ugly  old  cat?"  added  Perto. 

"He  isn't  an  ugly  old  cat.  He  is  a  magnificent  and 
well-bred  creature,"  retorted  Miss  Twigger,  as  Shackle- 
ton-Peary,  with  every  claw  well  padded  and  a  cheerful 
smile  of  good-natured  amiability  on  his  whiskered  counte- 
nance, emerged  from  the  basket  and  bounded  to  his  mis- 
tress's shoulder.  She  continued,  as  the  cat  rubbed  his 
sleek  piebald  side  against  her  lean  cheek,  and  the  ear  from 
which  dangled  a  long  old-fashioned  jet  earring,  and 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  123 

purred  a  hypocritical  song:  "Poor  Kitty!  did  urns  try  to 
hurt  you?  And  if  the  innocent  animal  had  bitten  or 
scratched  either  of  you,"  she  continued,  addressing  her 
young  charges,  "you  would  only  have  had  yourselves  to 
thank.  As  it  is,  you  will  each  of  you  go  upstairs  to  your 
respective  bedrooms  and  remain  there  until  tea-time. 
Walk!" 

Perto,  waved  to  the  door,  made  for  it  in  a  sulky  sham- 
ble. Robina,  with  blazing  eyes  and  crimson  ears,  wheeled 
in  the  act  of  following  him,  and  rebelliously  addressed 
Miss  Twigger : 

"When  Perto  and  me  were  sent  down  here,  it  was  to 
get  our  skins  changed  in  country  air,  and  not  to  be  scold- 
ed and  punished." 

"Leave  the  room,  Robina  Grayson !"  commanded  Miss 
Twigger,  indicating  the  doorway  with  a  red  and  knuckly 
finger  adorned  with  three  or  four  very  loosely-fitting  old- 
fashioned  rings. 

"We  don't  want  to  stay  in  your  old  room !"  said  Ro- 
bina loudly.  "We  don't  want  to  stop  in  your  poky  old 
cottage.  We  don't  like  it!  We  don't  like  your  cat,  and 
we  don't  like  you!  And  I  shall  write  and  tell  mother 
so,  and  ask  her  to  send  for  us  to  be  sent  home  to  Lon- 
don." 

"You  will,  will  you?"  demanded  Miss  Twigger,  as 
Shackleton-Peary,  folding  his  forepaws  comfortably  on 
her  black  silk  shoulder,  hoisted  his  tail  as  high  as  possible, 
and  waved  it  as  if  in  triumph. 

"That's  what  I've  said,"  retorted  Robina. 

"And  suppose  Mrs.  Grayson  doesn't  want  to  have  you 
back?"  demanded  Miss  Twigger  again. 

"She  will  want  to,"  said  Perto  bluffly  as  Robina  fal- 
tered, "when  she  knows  how  beastly  you  and  your  cat, 
and  your  cottage  and  your  village  are !" 

"Are  you  aware,  you  extremely  uneducated  little  boy," 
asked  Miss  Twigger,  after  a  brief  but  scorching  pause, 


124  'A  Sailor's  Home 

"that  you  are  addressing  the  trusted  companion  and  per- 
manent housekeeper  of  the  late  the  Venerable  Mrs.  Arch- 
deacon Whidderall,  and  that  my  cat  is  the  handsomest 
cat,  and  my  lodgings  the  most  respectable  lodgings,  and 
the  village  the  most  picturesque  and  healthy  village  in  all 
England?" 

"Not  to  mention  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland  and  the  Dominions  Beyond  the  Seas!"  put 
in  Robina  pertly.  She  knew  that  the  words  were  pert, 
for  they  gave  her  a  twinge  of  uneasiness  in  speaking 
them,  just  as  if  she  had  bitten  upon  a  hard  piece  of  toffee 
with  a  loose  tooth.  To  disguise  this  she  looked  out  of  the 
parlour  window  just  as  the  sun  shone  out  brightly,  and 
old  Mrs.  Shakerly's  niece,  a  mild-looking  elderly  woman 
with  a  patient,  worried  air,  went  by,  pushing  old  Mrs. 
Shakerly  in  her  Bath  chair. 

Now,  old  Mrs.  Shakerly  was  the  pride  of  Mold  End, 
since  Mold  End  had  recognised  her  as  its  oldest  inhab- 
itant. Generations  of  villagers  had  held  her  in  disesteem 
as  a  covetous,  quarrelsome  and  not  too  clean,  temperate 
or  honest  old  person,  until  the  Vicar,  who  had  been  pre- 
sented to  the  living  a  twelvemonth  previously,  sweeping 
through  the  Parish  registers  with  the  ardour  of  a  new 
broom,  had  happened  upon  the  entry  of  her  birth,  and 
discovered  her  age  to  be  ninety-nine.  After  that  Mold 
End  regarded  the  old  lady  as  its  glory  rather  than  its  dis- 
grace. Upon  the  morning  of  her  hundredth  birthday  she 
had  been  awakened  by  the  strains  of  the  local  choir,  and 
upon  its  evening  serenaded  by  the  Club  Band.  A  plated 
teapot  and  a  new  Paisley  shawl  had  been  subscribed  for 
and  presented  to  her  with  an  Address  signed  by  one  hun- 
dred taxpayers,  and  finally  she  had  been  the  recipient  of 
a  gracious  message  from  Royalty,  congratulating  her 
upon  the  attainment  of  so  great  an  age,  and  accompanied 
by  the  welcome  gift  of  a  new  sovereign. 

All  this  was  fresh  in  the  memory  of  Miss  Twigger, 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  125 

having,  in  fact,  only  happened  the  week  before.  She 
gazed  at  the  nodding  black-bonneted  old  head  in  the  Bath 
chair  with  veneration,  and  when  it  had  passed  by,  fol- 
lowed by  the  shabby  straw  hat  and  mild,  sheepish  profile 
of  old  Mrs.  Shakerly's  much  enduring  niece,  she  raised 
the  red,  bony,  ringed  hand  and  pointed  to  the  receding 
object  of  her  admiration,  saying  to  Robina,  who  still  re- 
belliously  lingered  upon  the  parlour  doormat: 

"Look  there,  Robina  Grayson.  Do  you  suppose  a  little 
girl  as  rude,  and  ill-bred,  and  ill-behaved  as  you  are,  will 
ever  be  congratulated  by  His  Majesty  King  George  the 
Fifth  upon  her  hundredth  birthday?" 

The  taunt  cut  deep  into  Robina's  self-esteem,  though 
had  she  stayed  to  reflect,  she  would  probably  have  realised 
that  the  most  polite,  well  brought  up  and  nicely  mannered 
of  little  girls  must,  necessarily,  however  long  she  re- 
mained one,  be  subject  to  an  equally  painful  deprivation. 
Her  lips  quivered,  her  face  flushed,  and  choking  down  her 
rising  tears,  she  temptestuously  quitted  the  parlour, 
rushed  up  the  narrow  stairs  to  her  little  slant-ceilinged 
attic  bedroom,  banged  and  locked  the  door,  threw  herself 
down  on  the  small  iron  bedstead  with  the  bumpy  flock 
mattress  and  bolster,  the  chintz  petticoat  valance,  and  the 
knobby  counterpane,  and  gave  vent  to  a  burst  of  indig- 
nant tears. 

If  you  think  Robina's  conduct  childish,  you  must  pity 
her  for  not  being  quite  as  sensible  as  you  yourself  were 
at  the  age  of  ten.  And  Robina  was  some  five  days  short 
of  that.  The  thought  of  spending  her  birthday  at  Miss 
Twigger's  lodgings  was  fraught  with  undeniable  gloom. 
She  got  up  from  the  bed  presently,  and  dried  her  swollen 
eyes,  and  sat  down  at  the  little  rickety  round  table  in  the 
window  to  write  her  threatened  letter  to  her  mother,  be- 
fore a  notion  budded  in  her  brain  that  presently  opened 
and  disclosed  such  a  wonderful  plan  that  its  inventor 
could  hardly  contemplate  it  without  screaming.  But  Ro- 


126  A  Sailor's  Home 

bina  stuffed  a  pink-spotted  cotton  handkerchief  into  her 
mouth,  and  the  scream  could  not  squeeze  by,  fortunately 
or  unfortunately. 

For  the  next  thing  Robina  did  was  to  select  from  a 
special  compartment  of  her  desk  a  small  sheet  of  shining 
rose-pink  note-paper  with  a  large  gilt  R  in  the  top  left- 
hand  corner,  and  the  address  "Mold  End,  Nr.  Plashing- 
ford,  Werks,"  stamped  on  the  upper  right-hand  side. 
You  bought  them  at  the  Post  Office  already  stamped  with 
any  initial  you  wanted,  and  the  address,  paying  two- 
pence for  three  sheets  and  an  envelope  to  match,  though 
the  cost  had  only  been  a  penny  before  the  war.  And  dip- 
ping the  pen  very  carefully,  and  shaking  the  blob  of  ink 
off  the  nib-end  on  the  faded  carpet,  Robina  wrote  "La- 
burnum Cottage"  above  the  "Mold  End,"  and  then,  with 
a  trembling  hand — "Your  Madjesty,"  and  knew  by  the 
odd  look  of  the  word  that  she  had  spelt  it  wrong  and 
must  take  another  sheet  of  the  pink  note. 

This  she  did,  and  bit  the  pen-end  in  a  silent  agony  of 
reflection  before  she  began  again.  "Your  Magesty" 
looked  little  less  promising — and  there  was  only  one  more 
sheet  of  the  pink  note  left.  With  the  boldness  of  despera- 
tion, Robina  selected  this,  wrote  "Laburnum  Cottage" 
once  more,  and  with  a  gasp  began  afresh: 

"Dear  King." 

That  seemed  to  her  critical  taste  a  little  familiar.  So 
she  added  "George  V."  and  felt  pleased.  After  that 
things  went  quite  smoothly  and  the  finished  letter  ran 
like  this — 

"Laburnum  Cottage 
"Mold  End, 

"Nr.  Plashingford, 

"Werks. 
"DEAR  KING  GEORGE  V., 

"I   am   staying  in  this  village   because   of   being 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  127 

icolated  having  had  german  meesles  though  pur  British 
by  dissent  and  eddukation  and  mearly  thought  your  Ma- 
gesty  might  like  to  know  that  on  Sepptember  6th,  which 
will  be  in  a  weak,  I  shall  be  10  years  old.  Hoping  this 
leaves  you  as  it  finds  me, 
"I  am, 

"Your  affexionate  Subbgect, 

"ROBINA  GRAYSON." 

How  drunkenly  the  words  stood  on  the  paper !  Robina 
understood  by  that  how  her  hand  must  have  shaken  as 
she  wrote.  But  the  composition  was  quite  good.  Nobody 
would  ever  believe  a  little  girl  of  not  quite  ten  could  have 
written  it  out  of  her  own  head.  And  then  tears  welled 
into  Robina's  round  gray  eyes  as  she  realised  how  unim- 
portant a  thing  it  must  seem  to  a  King  to  have  a  subject 
ten  years  old. 

"They're  like  pictures  and  china  and  violins — they 
must  be  awfully  old  to  be  of  any  value !"  she  said  under 
her  breath. 

And  then,  on  an  instant  it  happened.  Robina  had 
taken  up  the  still  inky  pen,  added  another  1  before  the  10, 
blotted  it  with  her  newest  piece  of  blotting-paper,  and 
gummed  it  securely  inside  the  envelope  almost  before  she 
knew  what  she  was  doing.  On  the  envelope  she  in- 
scribed : 

"THE  KING, 

"Buckingham  Pallas, 
"London." 

She  blotted  that,  stuck  a  stamp  in  the  corner  and  felt 
reassured,  because  the  bearded  face  of  the  gentleman 
upon  it  looked  so  good-natured  and  kind.  Then,  just 
before  the  noisy  little  bell  tinkled  that  summoned  the 
young  Graysons  to  Miss  Twigger's  five  o'clock  tea-table, 


128  A  Sailor's  Home 

the  gate-bell  rang,  and  Polly  Thwaite  the  postman-girl 
came  in  and  went  up  the  path  that  led  to  the  side-door, 
counting  a  handful  of  letters  as  she  went.  When  Polly 
delivered  them  and  came  back  again,  her  eyes  were  free 
to  look  about.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  Robina's  flushed 
face  looking  through  the  open  window  under  the  still 
dripping  thatch  of  the  attic  gable,  and  nodded  good- 
humouredly.  "Nothin'  for  'e,  missie,"  she  said,  for  Ro- 
bina  was  a  favourite  of  Polly's.  "Nothin'  for  'e  this 
toime." 

"I  know.  I  didn't  expect  .  .  .  Perhaps  there  will  be 
a  letter  for  me  inside  one  to  Miss  Twigger,"  Robina  said 
loudly,  leaning  out.  Then  showing  Polly  a  corner  of  the 
pink  envelope  .  .  .  "Will  you  post  this  for  me?  Care- 
fully?" she  asked  with  an  effort. 

"A'right!"  nodded  Polly.  "Drop  tin  in  my  apern!" 
she  added,  extending  the  blue  checked  garment,  and  Ro- 
bina let  go  the  pink  envelope  and  saw  it  flutter  down 
safely  and  vanish  in  Polly's  pocket  without  Polly  having 
once  glanced  at  the  address.  And  then  the  little  bell 
tinkled  again,  and  Robina  ran  downstairs  to  partake  of 
war  bread  and  margarine-cum-butter,  weak  tea  and 
"Shaker"  oats,  moistened  with  milk  and  with  last  year's 
green  gooseberry  jam  to  help  the  stodgy  stuff  down. 

But  all  Robina's  rebellious  resentment  and  indignation 
had  exhaled  in  the  writing  of  that  letter.  She  was  twitted 
by  Miss  Twigger  about  the  stains  of  ink  upon  her  fingers, 
and  took  the  nagging  meekly.  She  even  asked  for  and 
obtained  permission  to  offer  to  Shackleton-Peary,  whose 
appetite  for  all  descriptions  of  food  was  as  boundless  as 
his  appetite  for  mischief,  the  larger  half  of  her  portion 
of  "Shaker"  oats,  of  course  without  jam,  and  submitted 
to  hear  the  act  referred  to  as  a  tardy  atonement  for  her 
ill-usage  of  an  affectionate  and  playful  animal. 

In  fact,  for  the  whole  of  the  day  upon  which  that  fate- 
ful pink  envelope  had  fluttered  out  of  the  window,  and 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  129 

for  a  week  of  days  following,  Robina  was  as  meek  as 
nearly  could  be — a  model  little  girl.  So  much  a  model, 
that  Miss  Twigger  began  quite  to  "take  to  the  child,"  as 
she  expressed  it,  while  the  submissive  attitude  of  the 
taken-to  one  with  regard  to  Shackleton-Peary  evoked  the 
contempt  of  Perto,  and  deprived  Miss  Twigger*s  sportive 
favourite  of  a  great  deal  of  fun.  By  the  time  Robina's 
birthday  arrived,  and  it  advanced  as  slowly  as  birthdays 
have  a  knack  of  doing,  Robina  had  nearly  forgotten  the 
letter.  But  whether  she  remembered  it  or  not,  she  had 
written  it  and  posted  it,  and  so  set  working  machinery 
of  a  highly  elaborate  kind.  As  she  was  fated  to  discover 
before  very  long. 

n 

I  shall  not  try  to  describe  the  presents  received  by 
Robina  upon  her  birthday  morning.  Everything  Robina 
had  thoughtfully  named  in  advance  to  grown-up  relatives 
as  likely  to  be  most  acceptable  to  a  little  girl  upon  her 
tenth  birthday  was  contained  in  the  parcels,  with  several 
other  things  of  which  Robina  had  not  thought.  Perto 
gave  her  a  new  fishing-line  with  a  quill  float,  his  own  be- 
ing out  of  repair.  As  Robina  hated  fishing  and  would  not 
own  a  rod,  the  prudent  Perto  thus  combined  the  credit  of 
generosity  with  the  certainty  of  personal  advantage.  Red- 
cheeked  Emma  had  furbished  up  a  pincushion  bordered 
with  somewhat  dusty  shells,  and  Polly  Thwaite,  the  post- 
girl,  who  had  heard  of  the  approaching  anniversary  from 
Emma,  sent  three  bunches  of  very  green  watercress  tied 
up  in  the  previous  day's  issue  of  the  local  newspaper. 

Mrs.  Grayson  had  particularly  stipulated  that  there 
should  be  no  interference  upon  Miss  Twigger's  part  with 
the  home  correspondence  of  the  young  Graysons.  Con- 
sequently, the  armful  of  attractive-looking  packages  de- 
posited by  the  red-cheeked  Emma  upon  Robina's  bed 


130  A  Sailor's  Home 

on  the  birthday  morning  was  accompanied  by  half-a- 
dozen  pleasant-looking  envelopes  that  had  undergone  no 
previous  examination  by  the  sharp  eyes  behind  the  shiny 
spectacles  of  the  trusted  companion  and  permanent  house- 
keeper of  the  Venerable  Mrs.  Archdeacon  Whidderall. 

Robina's  father  sent  a  blue  Postal  Order  for  seven-and- 
sixpence  inside  his  letter.  Nurse  enclosed  a  shilling 
wrapped  up  in  pink  blotting-paper  in  the  corner  of  hers. 
Aunt  Ethelberta's  heliotrope  envelope,  directed  in  her 
well-known,  square-cut  hand,  might  possibly  contain  an- 
other Postal  Order  for  ten  shillings,  and  proved  to  do  so. 
There  was  another  envelope,  larger,  squarer  than  any  of 
the  others,  with  a  small  crimson  Crown  Imperial  upon 
the  envelope-flap,  and  the  address  upon  the  thick  creamy 
white  paper  was  type-written,  and  rather  odd : 

"To  MRS.  or  Miss  ROBINA  GRAYSON, 
"Laburnum  Cottage, 
"Mold  End, 
"Plashingford, 
"Werks." 

it  ran.  And — Robina's  heart  gave  a  great  heavy  bump 
against  the  front  of  her  frilled  nightgown,  and  the  roof  of 
her  mouth  went  dry  as  bone,  as  she  noticed  on  the  flap 
of  the  envelope  that  quite  small,  quite  unostentatious 
Imperial  Crown  stamped  in  brilliant  red. 

Then  you  might  have  heard  Robina  give  a  little  shrill 
scream  like  a  shot  rabbit — it  is  not  a  nice  thing  to  hear — 
as  she  dived  in  one  moment,  down  under  the  bedclothes 
right  to  the  bottom  of  the  bed.  Some  of  the  presents 
stayed  on  the  quilt,  the  others,  those  that  were  at  all 
heavy  or  topply,  shot,  bounced  or  rolled  off  the  upheaved 
coverlet  in  various  directions.  Robina  never  thought  of 
them,  or  of  anything  but  the  awful  letter  she  yet  held 
clutched  tightly  in  her  hand.  Down  in  the  stuffy  dark  at 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  131 

the  bed-bottom  she  realised,  perhaps  imperfectly,  but  yet 
horribly  enough,  what  the  kind  of  ball  was  that  her  push 
had  set  rolling.  And  it  was  a  spherical  mass  of  retribu- 
tion, heavy  as  granite  or  as  lead. 

She  was  very  pale  when  she  came  up  for  air,  exactly 
as  the  sea-lion  at  the  Zoological  Gardens  bounces  up  in 
the  middle  of  his  circular  railed-in  pond.  Her  eyes 
bulged  quite  as  glassily  as  the  sea-lion's,  though  her  hair 
was  much  less  sleek.  She  had  got  to  read  the  letter — 
and  the  bare  thought  seemed  to  set  each  dishevelled  lock 
bristling  on  her  head.  Her  small  childish  hands  shook  as 
she  opened  the  dreadful  envelope  and  drew  out  the  fold- 
ed sheet.  Underneath  a  second  small  red  crown  the  type- 
writing began  again.  It  was — it  was  the  answer  to  Ro- 
bina's  letter  to  the  King !  And  the  answer,  in  very  short 
lines,  ran  like  this: 

"Lord  Stanfordhurst  is  commanded  by  the 
King  to  thank  Mrs.  or  Miss  Robina  Grayson 
for  her  letter,  and  to  wish  her  many  happy 
returns  of  the  anniversary  of  her  110th 
birthday,  occurring  on  the  date  of  September 
6th." 
• 
That  was  all,  yet  how  much  it  signified. 

It  meant  for  one  thing  that  Robina  Grayson,  the  loyal 
and  affectionate  subject  of  His  Majesty  had  told  a  lie  to 
her  Sovereign. 

It  meant,  for  another,  that  Miss  Twigger,  in  calling  the 
said  Robina  Grayson  ill-bred,  had  been  perfectly 
right. 

It  signified  yet  more.  .  .  .  The  getting-up  bell  tinkled 
shrilly  before  Robina  had  worked  out  that  third  signifi- 
cance. And  then  the  conviction  that  in  deceiving  her 
monarch  she  had  committed  High  Treason  and  stood  in 
danger  of  being  imprisoned  in  the  Tower  of  London  if 


132  A  Sailor's  Home 

not  of  being  beheaded  or  shot,  or  hanged,  nearly  sent  her 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  bed  again. 

But  Robina  managed  to  get  washed  and  dressed, 
though  she  looked  very  queer  when  she  was  finished.  Her 
appearance  seemed  to  strike  Miss  Twigger,  for  when  she 
had  said  Grace  and  begun  to  pour  out  the  breakfast 
coffee,  she  glanced  quite  kindly  at  the  conscience-stricken 
Robina  and  said : 

"I  hope  you  mayn't  be  sickening  for  a  relapse  of  those 
German  measles,  child.  You  look  like  it !" 

"Do  I  ?"  faltered  Robina.  She  rubbed  her  pale  cheeks 
with  her  handkerchief  and  looked  at  the  handkerchief 
absently. 

"If  your  friends  and  relations  were  so  disloyal  to  their 
country  as  to  permit  you  to  catch  a  complaint  with  a 
name  like  that — and  so  disregardful  of  the  injunctions  of 
the  Food  Controller  as  to  send  you  sweets  for  a  birthday 
present,"  said  Miss  Twigger,  "you  ought  to  have  had 
the  sense  not  to  begin  on  'em  before  your  breakfast.  But 
it's  no  use  talking.  The  thing's  done!  And  all  the 
King's  horses  and  all  King's  men  can't  undo  it!" 

Robina  jumped,  the  words  sounded  so  fateful,  and 
turned,  first  so  red  and  then  so  pale,  that  Miss  Twigger 
broke  off  her  breakfast  in  the  middle,  mixed  her  young 
charge  a  hot  half -cupful  of  soda-mint,  and  sent  her  to  lie 
down  in  the  best  parlour. 

"And  Emma  will  put  you  to  bed  if  you  don't  feel  better 
as  the  morning  wears,"  said  Miss  Twigger.  "It's  un- 
lucky that  I'm  obliged  to  go  out  this  morning,  but  I  have 
to  call  at  the  Vicarage.  The  Vicar  wants  to  see  me  about 
some  business,  his  note  says,  but  it's  not  very  clear:  he 
seems  not  to  be  quite  sure  what  the  business  is,  himself." 
And  she  went  away  and  put  on  her  stiff  bonnet  and  black 
beaded  mantle,  her  square-toed  walking  shoes,  her  long- 
fingered  black  kid  gloves,  took  her  horn-handled  umbrella 
and  departed  with  a  final  warning,  while  Robina  lay  upon 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  133 

the  slippery  hair-cloth  sofa,  and  felt  like  nothing  but  a 
crushed  worm. 


m 


Perto  peeped  into  the  parlour  presently,  and  seeing  his 
sister's  eyes  wide  open,  approached  the  sofa. 

"Did  you  like  my  pr'wesent  ?"  he  asked,  looking  slightly 
mean. 

"Ever  so !"  answered  Robina,  who  was  in  the  peculiarly 
humble  mood  that  returns  extravagant  thanks  for  minute 
favours.  "It  was  frightfully  good  of  you  to  buy  me  that 
fishing-line,"  she  continued,  "and  I  promise  you  I'll  never 
part  with  it,  not  to  anybody !" 

Perto  wriggled  rather. 

"That's  all  r'wight,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "I  was 
r'wather  afr'waid  that  you'd  want  me  to  take  it  back,  as 
you  don't  ever  go  fishing  and  I  do.  But  I'm  glad  you're 
pleased.  I  say!  Here's  somebody  coming." 

To  the  accompaniment  of  the  tuff-tuffing  of  a  motor- 
bicycle  the  straw-hatted  upper  half  of  a  young  gentleman 
had  previously  shot  past  the  top  of  the  green  privet  hedge 
that  enclosed  the  prim  little  front  garden.  The  snort  of 
the  machine,  suddenly  arrested  in  mid-career  had  fol- 
lowed. Now  the  green-pointed  wooden  front  gate  swung 
open  and  the  young  gentleman  came  in,  wheeling  his  mo- 
tor-bicycle and  holding  his  straw  hat  in  the  hand  he 
wheeled  with,  while  he  wiped  his  heated  forehead  with  a 
pink  and  yellow  silk  handkerchief  held  in  the  other.  The 
forehead  was  very  tall  and  the  young  gentleman  was  very 
dusty  and  hot.  He  kicked  out  the  stands  and  propped 
his  machine  in  front  of  the  neatly-whitened  doorsteps, 
then  he  dived  under  the  porch  and  a  brisk  rat-tat-tat  and 
bell-ring  followed  the  dive.  In  the  distance  the  heavy 
feet  of  Emma  could  be  heard  moving  towards  the  door. 


134  A  Sailor's  Home 

"I  wonder  who  that  man  is  and  what  he  wants?"  said 
Perto. 

"He  wants  Miss  Twigger,  I  suppose,"  said  Robina, 
sitting  up  on  the  sofa,  and  wondering  if  any  little  girl  had 
ever  had  such  an  uncheerful  birthday  before.  "And 
Emma's  telling  him  she's  not  at  home." 

Emma  put  her  head  in  at  the  parlour  door  then.  There 
was  a  queer  expression  on  her  round  fresh  face. 

"A  gentleman  from  Plashingford,"  she  said,  "and  he 
wants  to  see  you,  miss." 

Robina  was  re-tying  the  blue  silk  bow  that  usually 
fastened  back  her  top  hair.  If  she  had  not  held  on  tight 
to  both  ends  of  the  ribbon  she  must  have  dropped. 

"You're  mistaken,"  she  faltered.  "He  means  Miss 
Twigger." 

"He  don't,"  said  Emma.  '  'Twas  Miss  Robina  Gray- 
son  as  pat  as  you  please.  Only "  and  here  Emma's 

eyes  vanished  in  mirthful  pink  creases,  "he  says,  'Will 
the  old  lady  see  me?'  instead  of  'will  the  young.'  He's  a 
funny  gentleman.  And  he  comes  from  the  office  of  The 
Plashingford  Trumpeter.  That's  the  newspaper  missus 
doesn't  take  in  because  the  politics  be  Radical.  She  has 
The  County  Indicator,  and  what  be  I  to  say?  Will  you 
see  the  gentleman?  He  says  it's  of  particular  impor- 
tance." And  Emma,  in  whose  cotton  under-pocket  a 
shilling  was  burning,  jerked  her  chin  in  the  direction  of 
the  hall  door. 

"But  what  does  he  want  to  see  me  for?"  hesitated 
Robina. 

"Maybe,"  said  Emma,  grinning,  "because  to-day's  your 
birthday.  Shan't  I  show  him  in?" 

Robina  felt  sick  in  spite  of  the  soda-mint.  She  drooped 
her  head,  speechlessly,  and  Emma  popped  back  into  the 
hall.  Next  moment  she  ushered  in  the  young  gentleman. 
He  began  a  respectful  bow,  which  ended  in  a  start.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  gray  knicker  bocker  cycling  suit  with 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  135 

green  stockings  with  ornamental  tops  and  brown  shoes, 
which  like  the  rest  of  him,  were  dusty,  and  he  wore  gilt- 
framed  eyeglasses  which  sat  rather  crookedly  on  a  high- 
bridged  pink  nose.  Through  the  glasses  he  stared  at 
Robina,  and  then  his  eyes  began  to  twinkle,  and  he 
showed  rather  a  nice  set  of  long  white  teeth  in  an  amused 
laugh. 

"This  is  a  rummy  start !"  remarked  the  young  gentle- 
man, looking  pleasantly  from  Robina  to  Perto  and  back 
again.  "Now  I  know  why  the  girl — she's  rather  pretty! 
— seemed  tickled.  Her  joke,  of  course.  And  I'm  fond 
of  jokes,  if  I  had  time  to  enjoy  'em."  He  drew  from 
an  outer  pocket  in  his  coat  a  fat  notebook  with  a  khaki 
cover,  and  extracting  a  shiny  black  fountain  pen  from 
another  pocket  uncapped  it,  flipped  it  in  the  air  and 
tried  the  point  critically  on  his  thumb,  saying:  "But  if 
I'm  to  get  an  interview  with  Miss  Robina  Grayson — 
or  is  it  Mrs.? — published  in  to-morrow's  issue  of  The 
Plashingford  Trumpeter — and  that's  what  our  Boss  has 
set  his  heart  on — I've  got  to  look  slippy.  For  worlds  I 
wouldn't  have  that  fellow  Mounteney  of  The  County  In- 
dicator get  in  first "  He  broke  off  as  the  sound  of 

wheels  plashing  through  the  drying  puddles  in  the  road 
came  to  his  ears.  The  garden  gate  clicked  as  the  young 
gentleman  spoke  the  last  three  words.  He  looked  sharp- 
ly towards  the  window  and  frowned,  as  a  resounding 
double  knock  shook  the  walls  of  Laburnum  Cottage,  and 
Robina  looked  towards  the  window  too,  and  saw  that  an 
ancient  four-wheeled  cab  drawn  by  a  decrepit  steed 
stood  before  the  garden  gate,  upon  which  its  driver 
leaned,  in  familiar  conversation  with  the  person  who  was 
knocking. 

"Never  'card  of  the  old  lady  myself,"  Robina  heard 
him  saying.  "But  live  and  learn."  Next  moment  Em- 
ma opened  the  parlour  door. 

"Another  gentleman  to  see  you,  Miss  Robina,"  she 


136  A  Sailor's  Home 


choked  out,  and  as  the  gentleman  entered  she  banged  the 
door  behind  him,  and  fled,  crowing  with  laughter,  down 
the  passage. 

"Your  servant,  madam,"  said  the  gentleman  who  had 
entered.  Elderly,  stout  and  bald,  with  a  fiercely-waxed 
moustache,  he  was  dressed,  to  describe  him  from  the  feet 
upwards,  in  rather  cracked  patent-leather  boots,  rather 
baggy  brown  trousers,  rather  a  seedy  black  frock-coat, 
rather  a  soiled  white  vest,  frayed  and  ink-stained,  rather 
a  greasy  red  necktie,  and  rather  a  cheap  onyx  tie-pin. 
His  notebook  was  ready  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  looked  weak 
and  short-sighted,  and  he  mechanically  felt  for  his  eye- 
glasses as  he  bowed  vaguely  to  Robina,  who  sat  upon  the 
sofa,  not  because  she  was  lacking  in  good  manners,  but 
because  her  legs  had  gone  soft  and  jellified,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  and  were  incapable  of  holding  her  up. 

"Permit  me  to  introduce  myself,  madam,  as  Mr.  Moun- 
teney  of  The  County  Indicator,"  said  the  new  gentleman, 
busily  feeling  for  the  eyeglasses  which  hung  at  the  full 
extent  of  their  thin  black  cord  down  the  middle  of  his 
portly  back.  "This  is  a  memorable  and  a  remarkable 
anniversary,  the  second,  too,  of  the  kind  within  a  fort- 
night, and  the  Trumpeter  having  got  in  before  us  on  that 
occasion — they  have  a  very  pushing  person  on  their  staff 
named  Ticking — our  Chief,  madam,  was  desirous  to 
secure  an  interview  with  you  as  a  special  attraction  for 
to-morrow.  Dear  me !  where  are  those  glasses  ?" 

"Hanging  down  the  middle  of  your  back,"  said  the 
young  gentleman  in  the  cycling  suit.  "It's  a  fact,"  he 
added,  "as  sure  as  that  pushing  person  of  the  name  of 
Ticking  has  got  in  before  you  again." 

The  stout  gentleman,  red  to  the  top  of  his  baldness, 
muttered  a  word  that  was  lost  in  his  moustache,  and 
revolved  in  search  of  the  missing  eyeglasses,  which  Perto 
considerately  found  and  handed  him.  Then  he  turned  to 
Robina  and  made  another  bow. 


iThe  Oldest  Inhabitant  137 

"Madam,"  he  took  the  eyeglasses  in  both  hands,  "let 
me  hope  that  the  enquiries  of  Mr.  Ticking  have  not  pre- 
judiced you  so  strongly  in  disfavour  of  Press  interview- 
ers that  you  cannot  grant  me  the  privilege  of  a  brief  con- 
versation. I  am  aware,  madam,  that  German  measles, 
contracted  at  the  venerable  and  remarkable  age  you  have 
to-day  attained,  cannot  but  be  weakening  to  the  system. 
But  you  have  happily  recovered.  Your  family,  your 
friends,  your  native  village  may  without  presumption 
hope  to  keep  you  for  some  years  to  come.  Without  re- 
garding that  hopeful  future,  madam,  may  I  ask  you  to 
give  the  many  readers  of  The  County  Indicator  a  peep 
into  your  checquered  and  profoundly  interesting  past." 
He  put  on  his  glasses,  and  his  suave  composure  vanished. 
His  eyes  rounded,  his  cheeks  became  crimson,  his  mouth 
opened  and  words  came  bursting  out: 

"Great  Jehoshaphat !"  he  shouted,  "I've  been  talking  to 
a  little  girl !" 

"Oh,  my  hat !"  gurgled  Mr.  Ticking,  who  had  dropped 
on  Miss  Twigger's  shiny  American  cloth-covered  arm- 
chair and  now  lay  back  holding  his  sides  in  convulsions 
of  laughter.  "Oh,  my  hat!  if  you'd  only  seen  yourself, 

Mounteney,  and  heard — and  heard "  His  tearful 

eyes  ran  over,  he  crowed  and  panted  and  gasped  in 
ecstasies  of  laughter,  and  Perto  laughed  too,  he  did  it  so 
queerly. 

"If  this  is  a  joke,"  said  Mr.  Mounteney  with  quivering 
red  cheeks,  bristling  moustache,  and  eyes  that  were  fierce 
behind  his  eyeglasses,  "I'm  hanged  if  I  see  it!  I  called 
at  this  house  to  see  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robina  Grayson.  Does 
she  live  here  or  does  she  not  ?  Reply,  young  lady !"  His 
fierce  little  eyes  dug  into  Robina  and  screwed  an  answer 
out. 

"She  does  live  here.  And  she  is  Miss  Robina  Grayson 
and  not  Mrs.  ? 

"Good,  so  far !"  said  Mr.  Mounteney,  folding  his  arms. 


138  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Now,  official  intelligence  having  reached  our  Editorial 
Department  that  to-day  is  the  hundred  and  tenth  anni- 
versary of  Miss  Robina  Grayson's  birth " 

"What?"  yelled  Perto  suddenly. 

"Don't  interrupt,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Mounteney,  giving 
Perto  a  glare  of  warning.  "To-day,"  he  went  on,  "com- 
pleting the  hundred  and  tenth  year  of  this  venerable 
lady,  and  a  local  Movement  having  its  rise  in  our  county 
town — being  on  foot  to  celebrate  the  occasion — which  has 
already  been  marked  by  a  gracious  letter  of  congratula- 
tion from  His  Majesty  the  King " 

"Bosh!"  muttered  Perto,  quite  audibly. 

"Myself  and  my  colleague,"  put  in  Mr.  Tickling  glibly, 
as  Mr.  Mounteney  turned  to  freeze  Pero  with  another 
stare,  "have  been  commissioned  by  our  respective  Bosses, 
to  call  in,  look  at  the  letter,  and  look  up  the  lady  in  the 
way  of  Biz." 

"Correct  as  to  the  general  definition  of  purpose  in 
calling,"  said  Mr.  Mounteney  frostily,  "But  I  must  pro- 
test against  the  term  colleague,  as  applied  by  you  to  my- 
self. Neither  is  my  respected  Chief  to  be  lightly " 

"Oh,  very  well !  Don't  upset  yourself !"  said  Mr.  Tick- 
ing easily.  "Now,  missy,"  he  added,  addressing  Robina, 
time's  precious.  Will  Miss  Robina  Grayson  see 
us?" 

Robina  racked  her  brain  for  a  reply.  Then  she  heard 
herself  say :  "You're  seeing  me  now.  I  am  Miss  Robina 
Grayson." 

"Which  accounts  for  the  mix-up!"  said  Mr.  Ticking, 
who  had  got  out  of  the  armchair.  He  produced  his  note- 
book as  he  spoke,  and  held  his  fountain  pen  ready. 
"Charmed  to  have  the  pleasure,  Miss  Robina.  But  the 
old  lady  is,  slangily  speaking,  my  game !" 

"And  mine,"  said  Mr.  Mounteney.  Both  men  looked 
eagerly  at  Robina,  and  her  straight  black  brows  frowned 
at  them  over  her  angry  gray  eyes. 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  139 

"She  doesn't  want  to  see  either  of  you!"  she  said  with 
perfect  truth,  and  was  pleased  to  see  how  limp  both  of  the 
unwelcome  visitors  went  all  in  a  moment. 

"Young  lady,"  began  Mr.  Mounteney,  bending  towards 
her  and  speaking  quite  as  though  Robina  were  quite 
grown  up,  "could  you  but  prevail  upon  your  venerable 
and  revered  relative  to  grant  a  brief  interview  to  me  as 
the  representative  of  an  old  established  family  newspaper 
of  sound  Unionist  views,  you  would  confer  upon  our 
readers — the  list  of  whom  embraces  every  person  of  re- 
spectability and  standing  within  a  radius  of  eleven 
miles " 

"I  like  that !"  burst  out  Mr.  Ticking. 

" — You  would  confer  a  favour  upon  the  public,"  went 
on  Mr.  Mounteney,  looking  full  at  Mr.  Ticking  without 
seeming  to  see  him,  "and  a  boon  upon  myself." 

"Look  here,  little  lady,"  urged  Mr.  Ticking,  returning 
Mr.  Mounteney's  glassy  stare  and  speaking  to  Robina, 
"I've  biked  five  miles  to  get  hold  of  some  personal  par- 
ticulars, and  I  can  guarantee  as  representative  of  a  high- 
class  Liberal  newspaper  that  they  will  not,  if  given,  be 
used  in  an  offensive,  or  ill-bred,  or  illiterate  manner, 
and  that  their  publication  will  be  of  interest  to  a  large 
community  of  paying  subscribers  and  of  profit  to  our- 
selves. We  don't  give  away  our  paper,"  he  continued, 
continuing  to  look  hard  at  Mr.  Mounteney,  "we  sell  it. 
And  people  who  want  reliable  information  and  the  latest 
local  and  political  news  for  nothing,  are  welcome  to  go 
and  borrow  the  rag  they  publish  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  though  they  don't  get  what  they  are  looking  for." 

"Won't  they?"  sneered  Mr.  Mounteney,  contemptuous- 

ly. 

"No,  they  won't!"  retorted  Mr.  Ticking  belligerently, 
"unless  you  happen  to  have  boiled  down  the  best  of  our 
previous  issue's  intelligence  into  a  column  of  passably  de- 
cent 'pars.' " 


140  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Sir!"  burst  out  Mr.  Mounteney  passionately,  "I  in- 
dignantly spurn  the  accusation!  I  grind  it  beneath  my 
heel  with  contempt!" 

"Spurn  away !"  retorted  Mr.  Ticking,  red  from  his  tall, 
stiff  double  collar  to  the  parting  of  his  curly  fair  hair. 
"Grind  as  much  as  you  like,  but  unless  you  want  to  lose 
the  readers  who  are  subscribers,  you'll  go  on  gathering  up 
the  Trumpeter's  crumbs." 

"Look  here!" — began  the  purple  Mounteney.  But 
Robina's  desire  to  get  rid  of  him,  as  of  his  adversary, 
overcame  her  alarm. 

"Oh,  please  don't  quarrel!"  she  begged.  "Or  if  you 
must,  do  do  it  somewhere  else!" 

There  was  a  pause.    Both  men  looked  rather  silly. 

"Ticking,"  said  Mr.  Mounteney,  "I  am  your  elder  by 
a  year  or  so."  He  purpled  still  more  as  Mr.  Ticking,  with 
a  glance  downwards  at  his  own  slim  figure  and  another  at 
his  youngish  reflection  in  the  greenish  little  mantel-mirror, 
seemed  to  add,  "And  the  rest!"  "But,"  continued  Mr. 
Mounteney,  "at  the  entreaty  of  this  innocent  child,  I  am 
ready  to  set  you  an  example  of  magnanimity."  He 
extended  a  short,  fat  hand,  encircled  by  a  palpably  paper 
cuff,  covered  with  notes  in  violet-ink  pencil,  and  contained 
in  a  frayed  sleeve.  "Ticking,  I  apologise.  At  this  mo- 
ment when  our  country  strives  in  the  welter  of  War  with 
the  treacherous  Teuton,  let  us  bury  the  hatchet  of  our 
private  animosities,  and  admit  the — ah,  the  existence  of 
the  Tie  of  Race.  We  are  British  subjects,  Ticking,  uni- 
ted in  the  firm  determination  to  present  an  unblenching 
front  to  the  Hun — our  common  enemy.  In  the  name  of 
our  country,  I  suggest  that  we  shake  hands !" 

"I'm  agreeable  if  you  are,"  responded  Mr.  Ticking.  "I 
don't  deny  about  our  both  being  British  though  you  have 
been  British  so  many  years  longer  than  I  have — and  to 
put  it  personally,  carry  so  much  frontage,  that  you're  not 
likely  ever  to  see  the  Front." 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  141 

He  shook  hands  without  enthusiasm  afterwards,  fur- 
tively— for  Robina  saw  the  action — wiping  his  hand  upon 
the  pink  and  yellow  silk  handkerchief. 

"And  now,  Missy,"  he  said  to  Robina,  getting  his  note- 
book ready  and  for  the  twentieth  time  shaking  up  his 
fountain  pen,  "won't  you  tell  us  something  about  this 
dear  old  soul?" 

"She  is  your  great-aunt,  I  presume?"  put  in  Mr.  Moun- 
teney;  holding  a  stump  of  violet-ink  pencil  suspended 
over  his  left  cuff.  Robina  shook  her  head. 

"Not  great  aunt !"  said  Mr.  Mounteney  and  Mr.  Tick- 
ing, speaking  together  and  simultaneously  jotting  some- 
thing down.  "What  relation,  then?" 

Robina  felt  her  head  going  round  inside.  She  was 
awfully  conscious  of  the  round  astonished  stare  of  Perto, 
who  at  first  had  stood  leaning  his  back  against  the  parlour 
window-shutter,  but  who  had  been  during  this  amazing 
interview  gradually  sinking  lower,  until  he  now  squatted 
on  a  Berlin  wool  hassock  upon  the  Kidderminster  carpet 
with  the  top  of  his  head  on  a  level  with  the  window-sill, 
and  the  tops  of  his  eyebrows  nearly  touching  his  hair. 
But  she  had  to  say  something,  and  she  said  it  in  a  small, 
weak,  flat  voice :  "Not  my  real  great-aunt,  that  is.  My 
adopted  great-aunt." 

Both  men  wrote  something  down,  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  it  and  looked  interrogatively  at  Robina. 

"You  mean,  of  course,  that  you're  her  adopted  great- 
niece?"  said  Mr.  Ticking. 

"I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Robina  a  little 
angrily.  "The  adopting,"  she  continued,  "was  on  my 
side.  I — I  wanted  a  great-aunt  rather  particularly,  and 
she  hadn't  any  great-niece.  .  .  .  So  it  was  arranged  like 
that." 

"You  were  relatives,  of  course.  I  judge  by  your 
names,"  said  Mr.  Mounteney,  "being  similar." 

'"I  gave  her  that  name,"  stated  Robina,  feeling  as  if 


142  A  Sailor's  Home 

she  were  sliding  down  a  smooth  ice  mountain  with  a 
bottomless  abyss  at  the  foot  of  it. 

" — Gave  her  that  name !"  said  Ticking  and  Mounteney 
quickly.  Then  they  both  looked  up,  and  Robina  said 
desperately : 

"She  hadn't  any  name  of  her  own,  you  know.  So  I 
had  her  christened — soon  after  I  found  her." 

"What!"  exclaimed  both  the  journalists,  fixing  circular 
eyes  of  astonishment  upon  Robina. 

"Be  so  good  as  to  let  us  have  details,"  said  Mr.  Moun- 
teney, who  was  beginning  to  breathe  wheezily.  "Ticking, 
this  promises  well  for  both  of  us !"  he  said,  looking  across 
the  room  at  Mr.  Ticking,  who  was  lying  back  in  the  arm- 
chair, his  legs  crossed,  so  that  his  right  knee  was  upon  a 
level  with  his  eyelids,  and  the  notebook  resting  on  his 
waistcoat,  as  he  rapidly  filled  page  after  page  with  short- 
hand whirls  and  quirks. 

"Where  did  you  find  her  when  you  found  her?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Ticking,  not  noticing  Mr.  Mounteney,  but 
turning  his  eyes  on  Robina  over  the  top  of  his  own  left 
knee. 

"On  the — the  sands  at  Lyme  Regis,"  blurted  out 
Robina,  grasping  at  a  recollection  of  the  previous  year's 
seaside  holiday;  "she  had  been  abandoned,"  she  added, 
"by  some  quite  common  people  who  wanted  to  get  rtd 
of  her,  and  had  gone  back  to  London  by  the  Excursion 
Return.  And  of  course  she  was  dreadfully  thin,  and 
mewing  with  hunger." 

"  'Mewing  with  hunger'  is  a  picturesque  way  of  ex- 
pressing it,"  observed  Ticking,  who  had  been  writing 
ravenously.  "Something  Kiplingesque  about  it,  to  me." 

"Reserve  comments,  please!"  said  Mr.  Mounteney, 
who  had  nearly  covered  the  blank  part  of  his  left  cuff. 
"Did  you  never  trace  the  wretches  who  had  deserted 
her?" 

"Never !"  said  Robina,  conscious  of  Perto's  start. 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  143 

"She  was  then,  of  course,  far  advanced  in  the  vale  of 
years?"  said  Mounteney,  rubbing  his  nose. 

"How  old?"  asked  Ticking. 

"Six  weeks,  Nurse  guessed,"  said  Robina  wearily. 

"Come,  come!"  said  Mr.  Ticking,  looking  reproach- 
fully over  the  top  of  his  knee  at  Robina. 

"This  is  serious,  you  know !"  added  Mounteney. 

"You  can't  mean,"  said  Ticking,  "that  you  only  found 
and  adopted  this  old  lady  as  your  great-aunt  six  weeks 
ago?" 

"That's  just  what  I  do  mean !"  said  Robina,  defiantly, 
and  the  indelible  ink  pencil  and  the  fountain  pen  gobbled 
up  the  statement  greedily. 

"Is  the  old  lady  an  early  riser?"  Ticking  was  begin- 
ning. 

"Ah,  yes.  As  to  habits  and  predilections,"  added 
Mounteney.  "We  shall  be  glad  of  some  information " 

"Does  she  get  up  early  and  eat  heartily?"  interrupted 
Ticking. 

"She  never  gets  up,"  said  Robina,  more  wearily  still. 

"Prostrate  since  the  unnatural  wretches  deserted  her 

"  muttered  Mounteney,  who  had  taken  off  his  left 

cuff  so  as  to  be  able  to  write  upon  the  inside  part. 

"CAST  ADRIFT,"  muttered  Ticking  reading  from  his 
notebook.  "That  goes  into  spaced  caps,  of  course !" 

"THROWN  UPON  THE  MERCY  OF  A  COLD  AND  HEARTLESS 
WORLD,"  quoted  Mounteney  from  his  cuff.  He  sucked  the 
end  of  his  pencil  and  hastily  wiped  his  mouth  with  his 
handkerchief.  "We  may  take  it,  then,"  he  said  to  Robina, 
"that  Miss  Grayson  is  practically  bedridden?" 

"She  is  not  bedridden,"  said  Robina,  "because  she 
never  goes  to  bed,  you  see." 

Both  the  fountain  pen  and  the  ink  pencil  devoured  this 
piece  of  information  ravenously. 

"As  to  diet,  now?"  hinted  Ticking,  looking  up  with 
half  an  eye. 


144  A  Sailor's  Home 

"She  doesn't  diet!"  snapped  Robina,  who  felt  like  a 
groaded  bull. 

"FOLLOWS  NO  REGIME,"  read  Mr.  Ticking,  mouthing 
the  words  as  if  they  were  all  going  to  be  printed  in  capi- 
tals. "NOURISHED  ON  NORMAL  FOOD." 

"HER  MARVELLOUS  DIGESTION,"  murmured  Mounteney, 
as  he  wrote,  "MIGHT  PROVOKE  ENVY  OF  MODERN  LUCUL- 
LUS.  Couldn't  you  name  a  favourite  dish  or  so?"  He 
looked  enquiringly  at  Robina. 

"Beefsteaks,"  said  a  voice  that  made  both  journalists 
jump,  and  Robina's  heart  knock  against  the  front  of  her 
black  alpaca  schoolroom  apron.  The  voice  was  Perto's. 
"Beefsteaks,  underdone,  and  toasted  Dutch  cheese." 

"Great  Scott !"  gasped  Mr.  Ticking,  jotting  it  down  in 
feverish  haste.  "Anything  else?" 

"Macaroons,"  said  Robina,  before  Perto  could  get  out 
the  word. 

"And  potted  lobster,"  said  Perto  loudly. 

"HALE  CENTENARIAN'S  COMPREHENSIVE  RANGE  OF 
DIETETIC  PREFERENCES,"  muttered  Mounteney,  "PROVES 

STAYING  POWERS  OF  CONSERVATIVE  OF  ANCIENT  REGIME." 

"Politics  tabooed,"  said  Ticking,  without  looking  up. 
"As  to  recreations?"  he  asked,  jerking  the  question  at 
Robina  with  his  chin.  "Does  Miss  Robina  Grayson  ever 
play " 

" — A  game  of  cribbage,"  said  Mounteney,  taking  the 
question  out  of  Ticking's  mouth,  "or  dummy  whist,  or 
indulge  in  any  other  recreation?" 

"She  skips  every  morning  regularly  for  half  an  hour 
after  her  cold  tub,  before  breakfast,"  said  Perto  loudly, 
"that's  what  she  does !" 

"Im-possible !    At  her  age,"  ejaculated  Mounteney. 

"All  right,  if  you  know  best!"  said  Perto,  staring  de- 
fiantly at  Robina.  "But  if  you  happened  to  be  in  the 
room  underneath  hers  you'd  know !" 

"Well,  but  at  that  age ! "  argued  Mounteney. 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  145 

"It's  the  reason  of  her  being  that  age,"  said  Ticking 
impatiently.  "Nothing  like  regular  exercise  for  keeping 
people  fit." 

"She  does  Mandow's  Physicking  Culture  Exercises, 
too,"  said  Perto,  "and  Juju — something  Japanese  that 
teaches  weak  people  how  to  break  burglars'  wrists  and 
ribs." 

"PHYSICAL  CULTURE  AND  JIU-JITSU  PRESERVE  VIGOUR 
TO  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  TEN  !"  muttered  Ticking,  who  had 
nearly  filled  his  notebook.  "Why  an  old  lady  like  that 
ought  to  see  us  all  out!  Dancing  about  at  her  age  as 
lively  as — as  a  cricket."  He  caught  the  eyes  of  Perto 
here,  who  promptly  said : 

"It  was  the  spider  she  did  the  skipping-rope  hornpipe 
with — at  the  Red  Cross  Entertainment.  Not  a  real 
spider,  you  know — only  a  boy  dressed  up.  And  she  did 
Britannia  afterwards — in  the  Patriotic  Tabloid." 

"Next  time  she  does  it,"  said  Mr.  Ticking  heartily, 
snapping  the  elastic  band  round  a  notebook  now  filled 
from  cover  to  cover — "tip  me  the  date  and  I'll  be  there  to 
see."  He  glanced  at  Mounteney,  who  had  exhausted  both 
cuffs  and  was  now  taking  some  final  notes  on  his  large 
pale  thumbnail  and  continued,  as  he  got  up,  pocketed  his 
notebook,  and  heartily  gripped  and  shook  Robina's  limp, 
cold  hand ;  "I'm  uncommonly  obliged  to  you  on  my  own 
account  and  The  Plashingford  Trumpeter's,  and  I  heart- 
ily wish  your  adopted  great-aunt  may  enjoy  many  more 
birthdays  like  this !  Now  I'm  off.  I  can't  offer  you  a  lift 
behind  me  on  the  chuffer,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with 
Perto  and  addressing  Mounteney,  "but  perhaps  that  tot- 
tery old  crock  in  your  cab  will  get  you  back  in  better  time 
than  he  brought  you  here,  as  he's  eaten  almost  half  of 
the  front-garden  hedge." 

Mr.  Mounteney  received  the  remark  of  Mr.  Ticking 
with  studied  indifference.  "Good-bye,  young  lady,"  he 
said  to  Robina.  "Convey  my  compliments  and  congratu- 


146  A  Sailor's  Home 

lations  to  that  noble,  splendid  old  soul  upstairs,  and  tell 
her  that  I  wish  there  were  more  ladies  like  her  to  set  an 
example  to  idle  and  luxurious  young  ones.  A  free  copy 
of  The  County  Indicator  will  be  posted  to  her  to-mor- 
row." 

"Oh,  my  sacred  aunt!"  said  Ticking,  who  was  just 
leaving  the  room.  Mr.  Mounteney  hurried  hotly  after 
him  to  demand  a  reason  for  the  ejaculation,  and  the  pair 
could  be  heard  wrangling  in  the  hall  as  Ticking  hunted 
for  his  straw  hat,  and  Mr.  Mounteney  for  his  umbrella, 
and  then  they  quarrelled  furiously  all  down  the  garden. 
Fascinated,  Robina  and  Perto  watched  them  from  the 
window,  and  when  Ticking  mounted  his  cycle  and  shot 
by  the  cab,  shouting  a  final  sarcasm,  Mr.  Mounteney 
bellowed  return  insults  from  the  window  until  a  sharp 
turn  in  the  village  street  hid  the  slim  figure  of  his  re- 
treating rival  from  his  eyes. 

Then  the  driver  turned  the  debilitated  cab-horse  round 
and  induced  it  to  follow.  And  as  the  cumbrous  vehicle 
slowly  moved  out  of  sight,  Robina,  beside  herself  with 
indignation,  clutched  Perto  by  the  sailor  collar  of  his  blue 
serge  jumper  and  shook  him  with  right  good  will. 

"How  dared  you  tell  such  falsehoods,  you  wicked  boy  ?" 
she  gasped. 

"How  dared  you,  if  it  comes  to  that?"  retorted  Perto, 
and  Robina,  releasing  him,  groaned  and  staggered  back- 
wards, thunder-stricken  at  the  appalling  truth.  Then 
Perto's  expression  of  mischievous  triumph  changed.  He 
began  to  say  that  he  didn't  mean  anything,  but  his  sister 
turned  pale  and  red,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"I  say,  don't!"  begged  Perto,  edging  near  her. 

"Oh,  how  could  I  be  so  wicked?"  wailed  Robina. 
"And  what  a  dreadful  day  I'm  having  for  my  birthday! 
And  it's  going  to  be  worse  still — I  feel  it  in  my 
bones!  ..." 

Perto  edged  closer. 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  147 

"What  put  it  into  your  head  to  make  up  such  a  buster 
— all  about  an  adopted  great-aunt  a  hundred  and  ten  years 
old !"  he  added  as  Robina  wrung  her  hands.  "You  did  it 
frightfully  well!  I  half  believed  the  old  thing  was  up- 
stairs all  the  time!" 

"Eating  beefsteaks  and  potted  lobster  and  doing 
Mandow's  Exercises  and  skipping!"  said  Robina  coming 
from  behind  her  apron  to  deal  Perto  a  glance  of  scorching 
indignation. 

"Well,  you  like  those  things  to  eat,  and  you  skip  before 
breakfast  and  stretch  your  muscles  with  those  Mandow 
things,"  pleaded  Perto,  standing  on  one  leg  as  his  habit 
was  when  abashed.  "Jolly!"  he  exclaimed  as  a  motor- 
horn  tooted  and  a  large  red  Rolls  Royce  car  whizzed  by. 
"I  wish  I  had  a  car  like  that!  Why — look  there! — it's 
stopping  at  our  door !" 

The  car  had,  in  fact,  been  checked  at  the  green  gate. 
It  was  a  landau-limousine  of  the  newest  and  most  ex- 
pensive kind.  I  must  explain  that  petrol  was  procurable 
by  His  Majesty's  lieges  at  this  early  period  of  the  War. 
And  from  the  seat  beside  the  liveried  chauffeur  descended 
a  large,  beaming  short  gentleman  in  a  fur-lined  overcoat, 
and  from  the  body  of  the  machine,  with  the  short  gentle- 
man's assistance,  descended  a  thin,  active  lady,  carrying  a 
large  bouquet  of  magnificent  hothouse  carnations.  To- 
gether they  advanced  up  the  narrow  garden  path,  shed- 
ding smiles  on  all  around  them,  and  immediately  a  loud, 
resounding  knock,  not  only  double,  but  of  the  polyanthus 
type,  made  Laburnum  Cottage  vibrate  from  the  founda- 
tions to  the  roof. 

Robina  could  not  speak.  She  listened  with  all  her  ears 
as  Emma,  who  must  have  seen  the  arrival  of  the  visitors 
over  the  kitchen  window-blind,  delayed  but  the  instant 
necessary  for  the  whisking  off  of  the  blue  apron  that 
covered  an  embroidered  white  one,  before  she  rushed  to 
admit  the  visitors.  Then  there  was  a  good  deal  of  tramp- 


148  A  Sailor's  Home 

ling  in  the  passage,  the  parlour  door  was  violently  wrested 
open,  and  anounced  in  Emma's  most  important  tones  as 
"Sir  Geoffry  and  Lady  FitzGorringe,"  the  large  couple 
smiled  themselves  into  the  room.  Sir  Geoffry,  who  had 
left  the  fur-lined  coat  in  the  hall,  proved  a  portly,  long 
frock-coated,  buff-vested,  gray-haired,  white-spatted  gen- 
tleman without  it.  Her  ladyship,  crowned  with  a  vast 
toque  trimmed  with  a  whole  spangled  Hamburg  fowl,  and 
covered  with  yards  and  yards  of  white  silk  veiling,  and 
wearing  a  gray  silk  dust-cloak  over  a  lavender  Bengaline 
dress,  was  about  as  much  like  a  ladyship  as  anything 
Robina  had  ever  imagined. 

"Have  we  really  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Robina 
Grayson?"  this  large  lady  began,  holding  out  her  hand 
and  smiling  more  than  ever.  Then  her  smile  faded  and 
her  eyes  grew  less  twinkly  and  nice.  "No,  we  haven't," 
she  said  condescendingly  shaking  her  head,  and  snif- 
fing at  her  huge  bouquet,  "but  possibly  you  little  peo- 
ple are  relatives  of  hers?"  and  she  looked  hard  at 
Robina. 

Her  eye  was  so  compelling  that  Robina  found  herself 
nodding  and  smiling  before  she  knew  it. 

"We  are  all  the  relatives  she  has  got  in  the  world!" 
she  said,  as  the  delicious  perfume  of  the  carnations  floated 
to  her  expanding  nostrils. 

"These  are  for  her,"  said  the  Lady  FitzGorringe,  laying 
the  splendid  bouquet  on  top  of  the  albums  ranged  in  a 
methodical  circle  on  the  shiny  centre-table,  and  sinking 
into  an  Early  Victorian  armchair  like  a  collapsing 
feather-bed,  "and  I  hope — and  Sir  Geoffry  hopes! — in 
fact,  we  both  hope — not  only  as  Mayor  and  Mayoress  of 
Plashingford,  but  as  a  pair  of  friendly  private  people — 
that  she  will  allow  us  to  present  them  personally,  and 
express  our  congratulations  at  the  same  time!" 

And  again  her  eye  was  so  unconsciously  compelling 
that  Robina  once  more  found  herself  nodding  and  smil- 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  149 

ing;  and  then,  before  she  could  stop  herself,  saying  quite 
in  Lady  FitzGorringe's  own  tones : 

"I'm  sure  she  would  be  quite  too  delighted  to  see  you 
if  she  could.  But  she  can't!" 

"Can't!"  echoed  Lady  FitzGorringe  rather  sharply. 
"Why  can't  she?" 

"Surely,"  said  Sir  Geoffry,  "she  could  stretch  a  point — 
under  the  circumstances." 

"She — she  has  been  stretching  points  all  the  morning," 
said  Robina  rather  desperately,  searching  about  for  some- 
thing to  say.  "And  since  the  two  gentlemen  with  the 
notebooks  went  away — they  came  for  the  papers  and 
quarrelled  all  the  time " 

"Bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  Sir  Geoffry,  "the  child 
must  mean  that  Mounteney  of  The  County  Indicator  and 
Ticking  of  The  Plashingford  Trumpeter  have  already 
been  here!" 

"They  have,  and  since  Mr.  Mounteney  and  Mr.  Tick- 
ing went  away — "  said  Robina  with  her  heart  thump- 
ing in  her  throat,  "Miss  Robina  Grayson  has  been " 

"Exhausted  ...  I  quite  understand!"  said  Lady 
FitzGorringe  sympathetically. 

"Done  up.  I  know  what  you  mean!"  exclaimed  Sir 
Geoffry,  and  Robina  added: 

"I  won't  say  she's  not  been  quite  herself,  because  she 
never  really  was  herself,  you  know !  but  much  less  like 
it  than  previously." 

"Now  do  explain  yourself,  if  you  don't  mind!"  said 
Lady  FitzGorringe.  "For  you  really  are  a  most  myster- 
ious child.  Or  perhaps  this  little  boy  could  enlighten 
us.  He  looks  intelligent."  She  smiled  on  Perto  winning- 
ly  as  she  spoke,  and  the  glitter  that  Robina  dreaded  came 
into  his  round  black  eyes.  A  big  lump  in  Robina's 
throat  checked  all  utterance.  Through  a  deafening  noise 
in  her  ears — which  she  discovered  to  be  the  beating  of 
her  own  terrified  heart — she  heard  Perto  talking  and 


150  A  Sailor's  Home 

talking  and  caught  scraps  of  lobster  and  underdone  beef- 
steak, with  references  to  Mandow's  Physical  Culture, 
linked  up  with  Little  Miss  Muffet,  the  Skipping  Rope 
Hornpipe  and  Britannia  Ruling  the  Waves.  Before 
he  had  finished  Lady  FitzGorringe  was  breathless  with 
interest  and  astonishment  and  Sir  Geoffry  had  said,  "By 
George!"  numberless  times.  Then  the  dreadful  ordeal 
ended.  Lady  FitzGorringe  exchanged  a  look  with  her 
husband,  pulled  down  her  yards  of  veil  and  rose  up 
magnificently  saying: 

"It  is  a  great  disappointment  to  Sir  Geoffry  and  my- 
self," and  the  whole  room  seemed  full  of  white  and 
gray  silk  and  lavender,  "but  under  the  circumstances  we 
could  not  dream  of  pressing  our  claim.  Give  these  car- 
nations to  Miss  Robina  Grayson  with  our  united  good 
wishes  and  congratulations  (which  are  already  written  on 
this  card)" — she  indicated  a  large  card  which  poked  out 
from  among  the  flowers.  "If  she  is  able  to  take  carriage 
exercise,  we  should  be  happy  to  place  a  vehicle  at  her 
disposal.  Our  place,  'Pawley  Park,'  is  supposed  to  be 
worth  seeing."  She  beamed  at  Sir  •  Geoffry  and  Sir 
Geoffry  beamed  back.  "The  house  is  pure  Tudor,  in 
excellent  preservation:  the  Jacobean  hall-carvings  are 
considered  unique — and  the  orange-trees  in  the  orangery 
were  brought  from  Hong-Kong  two  hundred  years  ago. 
If  Miss  Grayson  is  kind  enough  to  come,  perhaps  you 
will  come  with  her?"  She  smiled  at  Robina  and  Robina 
smiled  in  return. 

"She  couldn't  go  anywhere  without  me!"  she  said 
brightly. 

"Dear  me !"  said  her  ladyship. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  ejaculated  Sir  Geoffry. 

"She  wouldn't  be  alive  and  getting  these  lovely  flowers 
on  her  birthday,"  said  Robina  boldly,  "but  for  me!" 

"How  extremely  interesting,"  exclaimed  Lady  Fitz- 
Gorringe, putting  up  a  spying-glass.  The  gleam  of  her 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  151 

eye  through  the  polished  crystal  seemed  to  compel 
Robina  to  fresh  utterance. 

"Nor  she  wouldn't  have  had  the  King's  letter  from 
Buckingham  Palace  if  I  had  not  written  to  tell  him  that 
I  would  be — I  mean  she  would  be  ten  years  old — I  mean 
a  hundred  and  ten  years  old  to-day !" 

"WHAT  an  extraordinary  little  girl!"  exclaimed  Lady 
FitzGorringe,  looking  at  Sir  Geoffry,  whose  eyes  seemed 
popping  from  his  head. 

"Twentieth  Century,  by  George!  and  with  a  venge- 
ance!" cried  he.  "And  so  you  mean  to  tell  Lady  Fitz- 
Gorringe you  had  the  conf — the  blessed  nerve  to  write 
to  His  Majesty  out  of  your  own  head?" 

Robina's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  it  was  very  presumping?"  she 
cried,  piteously. 

"No,  no,  child!"  said  Lady  FitzGorringe,  moved  to 
pity  by  Robina's  pale,  imploring  face.  "It  was  quite, 
quite  natural  when  Miss  Grayson  hadn't  anyone  else  to 
write  for  her." 

"It  was  not  for  yourself  you  wrote,  anyhow,"  said 
Sir  Geoffry  with  a  fat,  creamy  laugh,  "and  when  you 
touch  your  own  century  I  hope  there  will  be  a  little 
girl  at  hand  to  put  in  a  good  word  for  you!  And  the 
response  to  the  letter  was  very  gratifying — very  grati- 
fying indeed! — and  the  intimation  that  was  conveyed 
to  me  with  regard  to  celebrating  the  occasion  by  a  semi- 
official call,  and  a  few  congratulatory  words  and  a 
bunch  of  flowers  (the  other  aged  lady  having  received 
musical  honours  on  her  anniversary),  was  very  gracious, 
extremely  gracious!  I  suppose  Miss  Grayson  is  aware 
that  the  King  is  visiting  the  Plashington  Convalescent 
Soldier's  Hospital  to-morrow  afternoon?  Now  if  she 
would  allow  us  to  arrange  for  her  to  be  present  in  the 
Main  Ward  at  three  o'clock  punctually,  when  Royalty 
passes  through — and  if  after  being  presented — she  could 


152  A  Sailor's  Home 

be  induced  to  repeat  her  recitation — by  Royal  Command, 
you  know — ha,  ha !  and  wind  up  with  the  dance — there's 
a  piano  there  and  my  wife  is  an  excellent  accompanist,  it 
would  be  gratifyingly  received,  I'm  sure !" 

"Splendid,  Geoffry !  WHAT  an  idea !"  chimed  in  Lady 
FitzGorringe.  "Then  that  is  settled,"  she  continued, 
beaming  at  Robina  and  rising  out  of  the  Victorian 
armchair  like  a  vast  expanding  balloon.  "We  shall  send 
the  carriage  for  Miss  Grayson  at  two  o'clock  punctually. 
Urge  upon  her  the  necessity  of  being  ready — but  of 
course  she  is  sure  to  realise  the  importance  of  the  oc- 
casion. Please  say  we  shall  expect  her  to  bring  both  her 
young  relatives — refreshments  will  be  served  in  the 
Matron's  Room  after  the  Royal  departure.  For  the  King 
will  take  afternoon  tea  with  Sir  Philip  and  Lady  Nun- 
bury,  he  dines  and  sleeps  to-night  at  Nunbury  Abbey — 
about  three  miles  from  here — of  course  you  know  the 
Abbey.  Lady  Nunbury  plants  a  young  tree  on  every  such 
occasion,  and  this  will  be  a  chestnut,  the  last  was  an  oak. 
Pleased  to  have  seen  you!  Come,  Geoffry!  Pray  re- 
member us  to  Miss  Grayson !"  added  Lady  FitzGorringe. 
She  pressed  Robina's  cold,  damp  fingers  with  a  yellow 
suede  glove,  ribby  with  rings,  remarking,  with  another 
beaming  smile ;  "How  enviably  cool  you  are,  and  in  such 
weather!"  Then  drew  her  voluminous  dust-cloak  about 
her  and  prepared  to  precede  Sir  Geoffry  out  of  the  room. 

But  Sir  Geoffry  was  bidding  a  genial  farewell  to  Perto, 
and  the  sense  of  remissness  in  this  respect  went  home  to 
Lady  FitzGorringe: 

"Really,  I  had  forgotten  this  little  fellow!"  she  ex- 
claimed, enveloping  in  her  yellow  suede  glove  the  small 
and  rather  grimy  hand  released  by  her  husband.  "Good- 
bye, my  dear  little  boy,  and  thank  you  for  your  most  in- 
teresting information.  We  shall  expect  to  see  you  and 
your  sister  on  Thursday  at  the  Hospital." 

"She's  not  my  sister,"  said  Perto  loudly,  as  though 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  153 

suddenly  possessed  by  a  spirit  of  contraction.  He  con- 
tinued, as  Lady  FitzGorringe  raised  her  glass  and  scanned 
his  countenance :  "I'm  her  uncle — that's  what  I  am !" 

"Her  uncle !    Bless  my  soul !"  exploded  Sir  Geoffry, 

"Good  gracious  ME  !"  shrieked  her  ladyship.  She  bent 
nearer  to  examine  Perto  more  closely,  and  the  boy  said 
daringly : 

"Not  her  commonj  uncle  either.  Her  great-unclel 
That's  what  I  am!" 

"My  dear  child!  You  CAN'T  be!"  cried  her  ladyship 
with  another  shriek. 

"Bless  my  soul!  don't  contradict  the  boy,"  cried  Sir 
Geoffry. 

"Geoffry,"  said  Lady  FitzGorringe,  in  a  deep  bass  voice 
laying  her  glove  on  her  husband's  coat-sleeve,  "I  must. 
His  statement  is  wildly  impossible." 

Her  objection  seemed  to  rouse  a  spirit  of  defiance  in 
Sir  Geoffry. 

"Impossible!  Why?"  he  puffed.  "Don't  see,  for  my 
part!  .  .  .  If  this  young  lady's  grandfather's  brother  has 

a  young  wife  with  young  children,  why  shouldn't ! 

No,  that  wouldn't  do  it.  ...  Try  again !  If  this  little 
boy's  elder  brother  happens  by  any  remarkable  chance  to 
be  the  grandfather  of  this  little  girl,  you  have  the  thing 
in  a  nutshell !" 

"Geoffry,  I  have  not!"  said  Lady  FitzGorringe  in- 
dignantly. She  tapped  her  foot  upon  the  floor  and  sur- 
veyed Perto  with  a  freezing  stare,  adding :  "And  what  is 
more,  I  decline  to!" 

"You  won't  accept  my  solution,"  said  Sir  Geoffry. 
"Not  even  if  it  were  proved  to  you,"  he  held  up  his  left 
hand  and  ticked  the  sentences  off  on  the  fingers,  "that 
this  boy's  elder  brother  (being  the  middle-aged  offspring 
of  a  very  early  marriage  of  his  father,  who  being  left  a 
widower  with  a  grown-up  family  took  a  young  wife  to 
soothe  his  declining  years) — could  be  a  grand-parent?" 


154  A  Sailor's  Home 

"No !"  said  Lady  FitzGorringe  stoutly. 

"Lor'  bless  my  soul !  how  obstinate  you  women  are !" 
exclaimed  Sir  Geoffry.  "Why,  the  thing's  as  clear  as 
mud!" 

"Bosh!"  said  Lady  FitzGorringe. 

"Philippa,"  said  Sir  Geoffry,  losing  his  temper,  "I  am 
dashed  if  you  shall  say  bosh  to  me !" 

But  her  ladyship  said  it  again,  as  the  gray  silk  dust- 
cloak  and  the  lavender  silk  gown  preceded  the  portly 
frock-coat,  gray  trousers  and  white  spats  out  of  the  room, 
and  the  dispute  as  to  whether  Perto's  elder  brother  could 
be  a  grandfather  was  continued  through  the  hall,  and  all 
the  way  down  the  garden-path,  and  did  not  end  at  the 
automobile.  For  Sir  Geoffry  got  inside  with  her  lady- 
ship to  have  it  out ;  and  when  the  big  car  slowly  glided 
away,  his  gesticulating  fist  was  flourishing  perilously 
near  the  large  veiled  hat  that  was  trimmed  with  a  whole 
speckled  Hamburg.  And  as  the  couple  were  rapidly 
withdrawn  from  sight,  Robina  cried : 

"What  on  earth  made  you  say  such  a  thing,  you  story- 
telling boy?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Perto,  in  a  breathless  tone,  "unless  she 
made  me!" 

Next  moment  found  him  rubbing  a  very  red  ear  and 
staring  at  a  bunch  of  magnificent  carnations  that  lay  upon 
the  carpet.  The  parlour  door  had  slammed  behind  Robina, 
and  before  Perto's  slapped  cheek  and  boxed  ear  quite 
stopped  smarting  and  humming  the  hall-door  slammed 
too. 

Rushing  to  the  window,  Perto  was  just  in  time  to  see 
Robina,  crowned  as  to  the  head  with  an  aged  straw  hat 
that  had  been  set  apart  for  garden  wear,  but  jacketless, 
gloveless,  and  wearing  her  schoolroom  apron  and  house 
slippers,  run  out  down  the  garden  path  and  out  at  the 
green  gate.  The  straw  hat  could  not  be  seen  over  the  top 
of  the  garden  hedge,  though  Perto  strained  his  eyes, 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  155 

always  short-sighted  and  recently  weakened  by  German 
measles,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it.  Wildly  excited,  the  boy 
threw  open  the  parlour  window  and  scrambled  out,  but 
only  got  to  the  green  gate  in  time  to  discern  a  vanishing 
speck  that  was  undoubtedly  Robina,  turning  off  at  the 
angle  of  the  road  that  led,  not  to  the  village  of  Mold 
End,  but  out  of  it  into  agricultural  and  unknown 
country. 

IV 

We  are  not  constrained  to  remain  at  Laburnum  Cot- 
tage with  Perto,  who  had  begun  to  suffer  from  a  sense  of 
sin,  or  even  to  accompany  the  acutely  repentant  Robina 
on  an  expiatory  pilgrimage  upon  the  road  that  grew 
longer,  and  harder  to  travel,  the  nearer  she  drew  to  its  end. 
We  may,  if  we  choose,  attend  the  errant  footsteps  of 
Shackleton-Peary,  who  slipped  out  of  the  house  upon 
Robina's  heels,  and  unseen  by  her,  wormed  himself 
through  the  green  garden-gate,  and,  trotting,  tail  held 
high  in  air,  or  galloping  with  the  splendid  bushy  append- 
age horizontally  extended  behind  him,  followed  the  re- 
treat of  the  ankles  his  teeth  had  so  often  tried. 

He  quite  approved  of  the  resolution  taken  by  Robina, 
and  whether  he  was  aware  or  not  of  the  direction  in  which 
her  steps  were  leading  his,  he  certainly  hurried  along  as 
though  he  were  certain  of  a  motherly  welcome  at  the  end 
of  the  journey.  A  finger-post  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
village,  which  had  informed  Robina  that  it  was  three  miles 
to  Nunbury,  had  given  place  to  another  finger-post  at 
crossing  road-corners  that  said:  "To  Nunbury  Abbey, 
2^2  miles."  The  houses  left  off  happening  on  each  side  of 
the  road,  and  some  minutes  after  hedges  with  unripe  haws 
and  bunches  of  blackberries  that  were  only  partly  black, 
edging  waving  fields  of  yellow  corn  or  fields  where  the 
corn  was  cutting ;  or  vast  spreads  of  paler  stubble  whose 


'156  A  Sailor's  Home 

grain  had  all  been  shaved  by  the  horse-drawn  reaping 
machines,  had  replaced  orchard  fences  and  garden  rail- 
ings, Robina  met  a  pair  of  tramps.  And  the  man  tramp, 
in  a  dusty  old  black  tailed-coat,  velveteen  trousers  and 
carpet  slippers,  was  wheeling  a  perambulator,  and  smok- 
ing a  pipe ;  and  the  woman,  a  frowsy  bundle  of  garments 
topped  with  a  sulky  face  that  was  shaded  by  a  broken- 
rimmed  black  straw  hat,  was  toiling  under  the  weight  of 
an  immense  bundle  of  rabbit-skins  mixed  up  with  others 
whose  previous  inmates  had  certainly  mewed  and  caught 
mice. 

The  man  passed  Robina  with  a  sidelong  look  out  of  an 
eye  that  was  red-lidded  and  bloodshot.  He  coughed 
rather  ostentatiously  and  the  woman  stopped. 

"There's  a  nice  little  lydy,"  she  whined,  "for  a  pore 
starving  creeter  to  meet  of  a  summer's  day !  'Aven't  you 
a  copper  or  two  about  you,  deary  ?  Feel  in  your  pockets 
and  see!" 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  nothing  about  me  but  postal  or- 
ders," explained  Robina,  with  laborious  caution. 

The  man  left  the  perambulator  in  the  road  that  from 
a  muddy  one  was  rapidly  becoming  a  dusty  one,  and  Ro- 
bina smelt  the  smell  of  beer,  getting  stronger  and  stronger 
as  he  approached. 

"Show  us  what  you've  got,  pretty  deer!"  pleaded  the 
woman,  showing  a  set  of  dreadfully  broken  teeth  in  what 
was  meant  to  be  a  coaxing  smile. 

"Ware  cops!"  said  the  man,  looking  first  over  one 
shoulder  and  then  over  the  other,  "too  many  o'  the  blueys 
about  'ere,  for  that  lay." 

"I'll  be  careful,  'Enery!"  said  the  woman  with  a  leer 
at  the  purse  Robina  had  reluctantly  drawn  from  her 
pocket. 

"They  came  this  morning  from  father  and  Aunt  Ethel- 
berta,"  she  said,  unfolding  and  exhibiting  the  crackly 
blue  papers  respectively  stamped  7s.  6d.  and  10s.  Od., 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  157 

"because  it  was  my  birthday.  Nurse  sent  a  shilling,  and 
if  you  can  give  me  change,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  give  you 
twopence  out  of  that." 

But  the  woman  shook  her  frowsy  head,  and  the  man 
ostentatiously  turned  out  ragged  pockets.  How  and 
where  were  two  poor  starving  unfort'nits  to  get  coppers 
to  give  in  change?  he  demanded  so  indignantly  that  Ro- 
bina  jumped  and  dropped  the  shilling.  The  man  in- 
stantly picked  it  up,  rubbed  it  on  his  trousers,  bit  it,  and 
extended  it  to  his  companion  in  a  very  dirty  palm. 

"This  is  wot  we're  asked  to  give  chynge  for!"  he 
sneered,  turning  up  a  broken  red  nose  as  far  as  it  would 
go.  "A  duffer  bob!  A  flash  deaner,  swelp  me!"  He 
frowned  at  the  breathless  Robina,  snarling:  "Why,  if  I 
was  to  show  this  'ere  to  the  police,  they'd  pinch  yer — 
and  I  don't  know  as  it  ain't  my  dooty  to  'and  yer  over. 
Ketch  'old  of  'er,  missis !" 

At  the  command  the  hot,  dusty  hand  of  the  frowsy 
woman  gripped  Robina's  slender  arm  with  unpleasant 
tightness. 

"Oh !  do  let  me  go !"  pleaded  Robina,  who  might  have 
been  braver  had  she  felt  less  tired  and  gritty ;  "I  haven't 
done  anything  to  the  shilling.  It's  just  as  Nurse  sent  it. 
I'm  sure !  Give  it  me  back  and  I'll  throw  it  away  where 
nobody  will  ever  find  it!  Why  bother  the  police  when 
they  are  so  busy  just  now  ?" 

The  beery  man  looked  at  the  frowsy  woman  and  his 
reddened  left  eyelid  twitched. 

"Woddyer  s'y,  old  donner?"  he  asked.  "Give  the  kid 
a  charnst,  shall  us,  or  not?  There's  a  nice  deep  pond 
side  o'  the  road  about  'arf  a  mile  on.  I  could  drop  this 
'ere  mag  in" — he  glanced  relentlessly  at  the  shilling  lying 
in  his  palm — "and  nobody  'ud  ever  be  the  wiser." 

"You'd  better  let  Jim,"  the  frowsy  woman  said,  squeez- 
ing Robina's  arm  unpleasantly.  "An'  if  you'll  tyke  good 
advice  you'll  show  'im  them  flimsies  in  yer  purse.  Pre'aps 


158  A  Sailor's  Home 

they're  duffers  too,  the  dollar  an'  'arf  an'  the  'arf  skiv', 
an'  think  of  the  trouble  they  might  bring  you  in." 

The  words  were  alarming,  but  Robina  did  not  believe 
that  either  her  father  or  her  aunt  would  send  Postal 
Orders  that  were  not  real  ones. 

"Oh!  thank  you,  but  I'd  rather  keep "  she  had 

begun  breathlessly,  when  her  purse  vanished  out  of  her 
hand.  .  .  . 

"Charnce  it  and  leg !"  she  heard  the  man  say,  and  her 
arm  was  released  with  such  a  spiteful  shove  that  she 
stumbled  and  fell  upon  her  knees  in  one  of  the  few 
puddles  that  had  not  dried.  When  she  picked  herself  up, 
rather  bruised  and  sobbing  a  little,  the  beery  man  with 
the  perambulator  and  the  frowsy  woman  had  made  such 
excellent  use  of  their  walking  powers  that  two  diminish- 
ing black  specks  upon  the  whitening  high-road  repre- 
sented them  to  their  victim's  eyes. 


"I  believe  I've  been  robbed,"  said  Robina,  indignantly, 
and  was  going  to  stamp  with  rage,  when  something 
bounced  through  a  hole  in  the  hedge  beside  her,  something 
soft  rubbed  against  her,  and  something  sharp  nipped  her 
instep.  To  her  terror  on  looking  down  she  recognised 
Shackleton-Peary,  a  little  muddy  in  some  places  and 
rather  dusty  in  others,  but  full  of  playfulness,  and  more 
than  willing  to  bite. 

"You  horrid  cat !"  said  Robina  severely,  removing  her 
ankle  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  enemy.  "How  did 
you  get  here?" 

Shackleton-Peary  purred  as  much  as  to  say,  "In  the 
same  way  as  you  did !"  and  throwing  himself  luxuriously 
on  his  back  in  the  road  where  it  was  dry,  exhibited  the 
round  black  patch  in  the  centre  of  his  dazzlingly  white 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  159 

waistcoat,  possibly  as  a  hint  that  he  was  tired  and  would 
prefer  to  rest. 

"I  can't  leave  you,"  said  Robina,  "and  I  can't  go  back ! 
at  least  not  until  I've  been  where  I  want  to  get  to — so 
you'd  just  better  get  up  and  come  along!" 

But  Shackleton-Peary  yawned  and  declined  to  get  up. 

"I'll  just  have  to  carry  you,  then,  you  horrid  thing!" 
said  Robina  after  a  feeble  pretence  of  abandoning  the 
rebel.  She  stooped  and  made  a  gingerly  grab  at  the  cat, 
who  instantly  converted  himself  into  a  thorny  ball  of  re- 
sistance. 

And  then — Robina  was  conscious  of  hearing  a  musical 
sound  that  was  a  great  deal  pleasanter  than  the  too-too- 
toop  of  the  motor  horn  that  is  most  familiar  to  our  ears. 
It  was  something  like  a  bell  and  something  like  a  gong. 
But  she  did  not  connect  it  with  the  idea  of  getting  out  of 
the  way,  until  the  large  dark  blue  Rolls  Royce  car  that 
had  bell-gonged  came  swooping  round  a  curve  in  the 
road,  the  exact  centre  of  which  was  occupied  by  Robina 
and  the  cat. 

"Kling-a-ling,  Bong,  Bong-lingl"  bell-gonged  the  large 
blue  car,  and  Robina  tried  to  dodge  out  of  the  way  and 
induce  Shackleton-Peary  to  do  the  same,  with  the  result 
that  the  cat  went  one  way  and  the  child  the  other,  and 
in  trying  to  avoid  the  child,  the  chauffeur  went  over  part 
of  the  cat. 

There  was  a  piercing  feline  yell  from  Shackleton- 
Peary.  The  large  Rolls  Royce  car,  making  a  beautiful 
double  curve  in  the  dust  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road, 
stopped  at  the  footpath  edge.  The  upper  part  of  a  brown- 
bearded,  middle-aged  officer  in  a  red-banded  field  cap 
with  gold  braid  about  the  peak,  and  red  tabs  on  the  collar 
of  his  khaki  jacket,  leaned  over  the  open  top  of  the 
landau-body,  and  a  tall,  active,  handsome  young  officer, 
dressed  almost  exactly  in  the  same  way,  jumped  down 
from  the  front  of  the  car  where  he  sat  with  a  khaki- 


160  A  Sailor's  Home 

uniformed  chauffeur  beside  him,  and  came  striding  down 
the  road  to  where  Shackleton-Peary  with  all  his  beautiful 
fur  soiled  with  dust  and  mud,  sat  with  all  the  bumptious- 
ness knocked  out  of  him,  holding  up  a  crushed  forepaw 
from  which  trickled  a  little  stream  of  blood. 

"A  bad  job,  poor  pussy!"  said  the  tall  young  officer 
in  a  pleasant  voice  as  he  stooped  over  the  sufferer.  "But 
if  no  worse  damage  is  done,  you're  lucky,"  he  added, 
rubbing  the  cat's  head.  "And  he  looks  too  lively, 
though  I  don't  know  as  much  about  cats  as  my  wife 
does." 

"Nunbury !"  called  the  bearded  officer,  and  Robina  now 
saw  that  two  other  officers  sat  facing  him  in  the  body  of 
the  car,  "Nunbury !" 

"Sir!"  answered  the  young  officer,  ceasing  to  stoop, 
and  becoming  perpendicular. 

"Any  serious  injury?"  asked  the  clear  authoritative 
voice  of  the  elder  officer. 

"Nothing,  sir,  I  think,  that  a  decent  vet.  couldn't  put 
right!"  called  back  the  young  man.  He  was  returning 
to  the  car  when : 

"Don't  come  back.  I  am  coming  to  you!"  said  the 
bearded  gentleman,  and  the  side-door  of  the  Rolls  Royce 
car  opened  before  the  khaki-uniformed  chauffeur  could 
reach  it.  And  the  middle-aged  bearded  officer  stepped 
out. 

Robina  had  an  instant  of  doubt  as  to  whether  she  had 
not  seen  him  somewhere  as  he  walked  over  briskly  and 
actively  to  join  the  little  group  of  three.  He  was  short 
and  not  at  all  stout,  stooped  slightly  and  leaned  upon  his 
walking-stick,  surveying  the  girl  and  the  damaged  cat 
with  full,  bright,  very  blue  eyes,  the  bluest  Robina  thought 
to  herself,  that  she  had  ever  seen.  He  said  in  a  clear, 
agreeable  voice,  smoothing  his  pointed  brown  beard  with 
a  sunburnt  hand  that  wore  a  massive  signet-ring: 

"I  agree  with  you,  Nunbury,  as  regards  the  vet.     Is 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  161 

there  a  competent  person  in  the  neighbourhood,  do  you 
know?" 

The  officer  addressed  as  "Nunbury"  shook  his  head 
doubtfully. 

"Not  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  sir.  But  on 
the  outskirts  of  Plashingford  there's  a  quite  clever  fellow, 
M.R.C.V.S.  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  "We  send  for  him 
when  anything's  wrong  at  the  Abbey  stable  or  on  the 
Home  Farm." 

"Very  good !"  said  the  bearded  officer.  Then  he  added : 
"I  think  we  have  a  spare  tea-basket  in  the  car.  If  you 
will  kindly  tell  Morton  to  empty  it  of  its  fittings  we  will 
carry  the  cat  to  the  veterinary's  at  once.  We  have 
plenty  of  time.  It  will  not  delay  us." 

"Very  well,  sir!" 

The  young  officer  touched  his  cap,  and  went  back  to 
the  car  with  long  light  strides.  Robina  looked  up  with 
a  sobbing  gasp  of  relief  and  said  to  the  owner  of  the 
blue  eyes: 

"Thank  you  ever  and  ever  so  much!  But  won't  it 
cost  a — a  great  deal  of  money?" 

"It  is  not  going  to  cost  you  anything,"  said  the  officer, 
looking  at  Robina  very  kindly,  "except  the  anxiety  of 
knowing  that  your  pet  must  suffer  something  more  in 
order  to  be  made  quite  well.  And — although  I  can't  quite 
call  myself  a  veterinary  surgeon,  I  am  not  inclined  to 
think  the  damage  is  severe."  He  stooped  down  and 
gently  felt  the  cat's  wounded  leg. 

"Please  take  care.  He  sometimes  bites !"  said  Robina, 
as  Shackleton-Peary  winced  a  little. 

"Does  he  ?  Ah,  well,  I  do  not  think  he  is  going  to  bite 
me,"  said  the  middle-aged  officer,  stroking  the  cat's  silky 
head. 

"He  never  does  what  one  expects,"  said  Robina,  "so 
perhaps  he  won't !  And  though  I  am  sorry  for  him,  he 
brought  this  upon  himself.  First  by  following  me, 


1 62  A  Sailor's  Home 

he  ought  to  know  that  cats  are  expected  to  stay  at  home ; 
and  then  by  lying  down  in  the  middle  of  the  road  because 
he  was  tired.  Though  perhaps  what  has  happened  has 
been  for  the  best,"  the  tired  little  girl  ended,  "for  I  never 
could  have  carried  him  as  far  as  Nunbury  Abbey." 

"Ah,  so  you  were  going  to  Nunbury?  ..."  said 
the  officer,  leaning  on  his  plain  brown  gold-banded  stick 
and  smiling  down  kindly  at  Robina. 

"On  important  private  business !"  said  Robina. 

"So !"  said  the  officer. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Robina,  with  an  impulse  to  con- 
fidence she  could  not  conquer,  "that  the  King  is  staying 
there — and  I  awfully  want  to  see  him." 

"So !"  said  the  officer  with  a  twinkle  in  the  very  blue 
eyes,  tapping  one  of  his  brown  spurred  boots  with  his 
stick,  "Is  that  the  case  ?" 

"You  ^vould  keep  a  secret  if  I  told  you  one,  wouldn't 
you?"  asked  Robina. 

"Certainly!"  said  the  gentleman.  But  he  added, 
"Before  I  give  you  permission  to  tell  it  me  I  must  ask 
you  to  make  quite  sure  that  it  is  your  secret,  and  no  other 
person's.  Do  you  understand?" 

"I  understand,"  said  Robina,  "but  it  is  my  secret, 
really.  It's  about  a  letter  I  wrote  to  him — to  the  King — 
days  and  days  ago,  telling  him  that  the  ninth  of  this 
month " 

"That  is  to-day !"  said  the  officer. 

"That  to-day  would  be  my  birthday,"  continued  Robina, 
miserably,  "and  that  it  would  make  me  a  hundred  and 
ten  years  old." 

"So!"  said  the  officer,  and  the  way  he  uttered  the 
word  made  Robina  feel  as  though  icy  cold  water  was 
running  down  her  back.  His  face  was  terribly  stern,  and 
his  full  blue  eyes  shone  like  cold  sapphires.  "And  what 
induced  a  young  lady  to  play  a  vulgar  practical  joke,"  h« 
added,  and  his  voice  was  freezingly  cold,  "upon  the 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  163 

person  whom,  next  to  her  father  and  mother,  she  should 
most  honour  and  respect?" 

"I  never  thought  of  its  being  a  practical  joke,"  fal- 
tered rueful  Robina.  "We — Perto  and  me — were  sent 
down  here  to  be  icerlated  after  German  measles — have 
you  ever  had  German  measles?" 

"Possibly.    I  forget!"  said  the  officer. 

"They're  horrid  things,"  went  on  Robina.  "And  it  was 
so  lonely — and  Miss  Twigger  is  the  stiffest  old  person 
you  could  possibly  imagine — and  her  cat — that's  the  one 
you  ran  over — kept  biting  our  legs.  And  my  birthday 
was  coming,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  myself — and 
then  there  had  been  all  that  fuss  over  old  Mrs.  Shakerly 
the  week  before — and  it  was  only  putting  one  little  extra 
stroke  in  front  of  one  and  a  nought — and  that's  how  it 
happened !" 

"And  that's  how  it  happened!"  said  the  officer.  His 
voice  was  clear  and  stern,  but  his  blue  eyes  twinkled. 

"It  wasn't  till  the  envelope  with  the  red  crown  and  the 
typewritten  letter  from  Lord  Stamfordhurst — whoever 
he  is,"  said  Robina  tearfully,  "that  I  really  understood 
what  an  awful  thing  I'd  done,  and  then  I  could  have  lain 
flat  down  and  died!  But  I  hadn't  a  chance.  With  the 
awful  men  from  the  dreadful  newspapers  calling,  and 
asking  questions — and  you  can't  imagine  how  inquisitive 
they  were " 

"I  think  I  can !"  said  the  officer  smoothing  his  brown 
beard,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  really  laughing  now. 

"And  then,  what  with  the  Mayor  and  Mayoress — Sir 
Geoffry  and  Lady  Fitzgorringe  coming  with  united  car- 
nations and  a  bunch  of  congratulations " 

"Did  they?    Ah,  of  course!" 

"I  mean  united  congratulations  and  a  bunch  of  carna- 
tions," hurried  on  Robina.  "I  felt  awfuller  and  awfuller. 
And  whatever  the  King  did  in  the  way  of  punishing  me, 
couldn't  be  much  worse  than  hearing  somebody  inside 


164  A  Sailor's  Home 

myself  telling  me  all  the  time  without  stopping  how  dis- 
gracefully I'd  behaved." 

"I  can  imagine  that,"  said  the  officer.  "And  do  I 
understand  that  when  we  ran  over  your  cat  you  were  on 
your  way  to  Nunbury  Abbey  ?"  His  mouth  looked  stern 
under  the  brown  mustache,  but  his  eyes  danced  and 
twinkled  as  though  diamonds  had  been  mixed  up  with 
the  sapphires.  "Going  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  I  was !"  blurted  out  Robina. 

"Plucky  at  any  rate,"  said  the  officer,  as  though  to  him- 
self. "And  honest.  H'm !" 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  asked  Robina,  "sup- 
posing you  have  ever  been  to  Nunbury — is  it  a  very 
ancient  place?" 

"I  know  the  Abbey,"  said  the  officer,  "and  it  is  cer- 
tainly of  very  great  antiquity.  There  is  a  Saxon  keep, 
for  instance,  that  dates  from  the  reign  of  Athelstan." 

"Keeps  were  called  keeps  because  people  could  be 
kept  prisoners  inside  them,  weren't  they?"  hesitated 
Robina. 

"The  hypothesis  is  ingenious,"  said  the  officer  gravely, 
"but  I  cannot  pronounce  it  correct.  However — suppos- 
ing it  to  be  so?" 

"I  asked  because,  if  I  have  committed  High  Treason, 
the  King  might  have  me  dungeoned  there,"  said  Robina, 
desperately. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  officer,  "but  I  do  not  for  a 
moment  believe  the  King  would  deal  with  you  so  severely. 
He  has  a  reputation  for  humanity  which  he  has  generally 
endeavoured  to  deserve.  .  .  .  Was  it  because  you  ex- 
pected to  be  imprisoned  in  Nunbury  Keep  that  you  were 
"bringing  your  pet  cat  along  with  you  ?" 

"He  isn't  a  pet.  He's  a  perfect  beast  and  bites  ankles 
till  you're  tired  of  life!"  burst  from  Robina.  "And  I 
didn't  bring  him.  He  just  came  without  being  asked— 
and  when  he  got  so  tired  that  he  wouldn't  walk  any 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  165 

farther  I  was  going  to  try  and  carry  him — when  your 
tar  ting-a-linged  and  only  one  of  us  had  time  to  get  out 
of  the  way!" 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  said  the  officer.  "Now,"  he 
added,  as  his  younger  companion  came  quickly  back  with 
a  light  cane  hamper  and  Shackleton-Peary  without  protest 
submitted  to  being  shut  inside,  "do  you  not  think  you 
had  better  go  home,  or  allow  me  to  drive  you  there,  as 
we  are  passing  through  Mold  End.  The  King  may  not 
now  be  at  Nunbury  Abbey,  though  he  certainly  dines 
there  this  evening — and  to  have  so  long  and  hot  a  walk 
for  nothing  would  be  discouraging,  to  say  the  least. 
Moreover  the  true  state  of  affairs  may  perhaps  be  known 
to  the  King  by  a  kind  of  accident,  and  he  may  give  in- 
structions that  no  further  notice  is  to  be  taken  of  what 
was  after  all,  merely  a  silly  childish  freak!" 

Robina  shook  her  head. 

"He  would  know  I  was  sorry  by  my  having  come  to 
own  up,  whether  he  was  at  home  or  not.  The  other  way 
he  could  only  guess.  And  you're  very  kind,  and  I'm 
awfully  obliged — and  it  will  be  a  long  walk — and  of  course 
I  shan't  get  any  tea — and  Miss  Twigger  will  probably 
send  me  to  bed  without  supper,  though  it  is  my  birthday ! 
But  I  think,  under  the  circumstances,  I'm  doing  right." 

"Then  I  will  not  further  seek  to  dissuade  you,"  said 
the  officer,  drawing  off  one  of  his  brown  dogskin  gloves, 
and  feeling  in  his  right  front  pocket.  "By  the  way,  do 
you  speak  French?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  quite,"  said  Robina,  trying  to  be  honest, 
"though  I  can  say  three  verbs  and  some  of  the  vocallu- 
bary." 

"You  speak  French  quite  sufficiently  for  my  purpose, 
thank  you,"  replied  the  bearded  officer.  He  drew  out  a 
tiny  green  enamel  memorandum-book  with  something  in 
flashing  red  and  white  stones  on  the  cover,  and  using  a 
thick  pencil-case  that  was  yellow  like  gold,  penciled  a  few 


1 66  A  Sailor's  Home 

words  on  a  blank  leaf  of  the  little  book.  "You  will  find 
Lady  Nunbury  at  home  I  am  certain.  Before  you  men- 
tion your  wish  to  see  the  King,  ask  to  speak  to  her  and 
hand  her  this."  He  tore  from  the  memorandum-book 
the  leaf  he  had  written  on,  folded  it,  pencilled  some- 
thing on  the  outer  fold  and  handed  it  to  Robina.  "Now, 
good-bye,  my  child,  and  good  luck  attend  you!"  he  said 
in  his  pleasant  voice,  and  touching  the  gold-braided  peak 
of  his  red-banded  khaki  field  cap,  turned  and  walked  back 
with  the  younger  officer,  who  carried  the  tea-basket,  in 
the  direction  of  the  blue  Rolls  Royce,  by  which  the  two 
other  officers  who  had  been  inside  were  now  standing. 
Then  as  the  tea-basket  was  carefully  stowed  in  front  by 
the  officer  who  had  carried  it,  the  bearded  officer  with  a 
word  or  two  to  the  other  members  of  his  party,  got  in, 
followed  by  them,  and  chuff-chuffed  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  village  Robina  had  left  behind  her. 

We  will  not  describe  the  rest  of  the  walk.  The  dis- 
tances on  the  finger-posts  kept  shortening  until  one  said, 
"Nunbury.  To  Hopleaf  6  m.,"  and  Robina  knew  she 
was  at  her  journey's  end.  The  great  gates  of  the  South 
Lodge  opened  at  the  top  of  the  village  street,  and  they 
were  of  much  gilt  wrought  iron,  between  pillars  of  marble 
stained  with  red  and  yellow  and  mossy  green  lichen  sup- 
porting heraldic  beasts  that  ramped  over  emblazoned 
shields  of  arms. 

"A  child  in  an  old  straw  hat  and  untidy  'air  an'  a 
muddy  frock,  and  walking  in  as  if  the  place  belonged  to 
her,"  said  the  gate-keeper's  wife  indignantly  to  the  gate- 
keeper, who  wore  his  best  livery  in  honour  of  the  Royal 
visitor,  and  was  assisted  in  his  duties  by  a  couple  of  very 
retiring  and  modest-looking  youngish  men,  who  were 
attired  in  garments  similar  to  the  gate-keeper's,  but  were 
in  reality  what  he  would  have  called  "tecs"  from  Scot- 
land Yard. 

"She  said  she  brought  a  message  for  Her  Ladyship  as 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  167 

was  give  'er  by  the  officer  with  a  short  brown  beard  and 
blue  eyes  who  was  being  driven  in  the  big  car  along  with 
three  others,"  explained  the  gate-keeper. 

"Lor'!  to  goodness  me!"  said  the  gate-keeper's  wife. 
And  she  hurried  to  look  over  the  pots  of  pelargoniums 
and  the  muslin  blinds  adorning  the  back  window,  just  in 
time  to  see  the  old  straw  hat  and  muddied  frock  vanish 
round  the  sweep  of  the  newly-gravelled  drive. 

That  drive  curled  in  the  shape  of  the  letter  S  through 
a  wonderfully  beautiful  shrubbery,  ablaze  with  beds  of 
Japanese  lilies,  monbretias  and  tall  cockscombs,  dahlias 
and  hollyhocks  in  wonderful  colours,  towering  clumps  of 
plumy  grasses,  and  masses  of  clematis  flowering  in  purple 
and  crimson  and  white.  Beyond  was  a  vast  park  where 
herds  of  deer  grazed  or  lay  under  giant  oaks  and  beeches. 
And  the  Abbey  rose  up  from  the  middle  of  splendid  ter- 
raced gardens  whose  fountains  were  spouting  columns 
of  falling  water  from  wide  basins  starred  with  blue 
water-lilies  and  white  ones,  and  tenanted  by  great  golden- 
scaled,  red-finned  carp. 

The  first  impression  of  the  house  was  its  immense 
number  of  tall  marble-mullioned  windows ;  the  next,  the 
grave  beauty  of  its  lofty  front  of  creamy  lichened  stone. 
It  was  in  the  shape  of  a  half -square  and  seemed  to  have 
chimneys  of  every  shape  that  chimneys  could  be  built  in, 
the  high  pillared  portico  being  in  the  centre  of  the  main 
block  of  the  house,  so  that  the  wings  jutting  out  on  either 
side  were  like  arms  held  out  to  welcome  the  arriving 
guest. 

The  arriving  guest  felt  very  small  and  muddy  and 
dusty  and  tired,  as  she  advanced  between  the  many- 
windowed  wings  and  timidly  climbed  the  low  wide  steps 
that  led  to  the  great  hall  door.  ...  It  stood  open,  and 
inside  the  outer  hall,  which  was  paved  with  black  and 
white  marble  tiles,  a  vast  porter  dozed  in  a  great  carved 
and  painted  and  gilded  sedan-chair  that,  large  as  it  was, 


1 68  A  Sailor's  Home 


fitted  him  quite  tightly.  The  porter  wore  a  vast  gold- 
buttoned  crimson  waistcoat,  and  gold-striped  trousers  and 
a  frockcoat  of  dark  green,  and  he  snored,  as  did  a  Great 
Dane  who  was  lying  on  the  wide  rubber  mat  outside  the 
open  door,  his  heavy  black-and-gray  jowl  on  his  great 
gray  paws.  He  rolled  a  red-rimmed  eye  at  Robina,  and 
the  hair  bristled  in  a  ridge  along  his  spine  as  he  uttered 
a  low  rumbling  growl.  "R-worrf !"  said  the  Great  Dane. 
"Good  doggie,  then  !"  began  Robina.  Then  she  jumped, 
for  out  of  the  hall  poured  an  avalanche  of  toy  Japanese 
spaniels  and  white  Pomeranians  with  Royal  blue  ribbon 
bows  on  their  silver-belled  collars,  and  the  yapping  and 
tinkling  and  barking  that  ensued  would  have  waked  the 
Seven  Sleepers,  let  alone  a  stout  porter  after  a  heavy 
early  dinner. 

VI 

The  porter  grunted  and  got  out  of  his  chair,  but  not  so 
quickly  owing  to  his  heavy  dinner,  but  that  two  mild- 
looking  men  in  plain  dark  blue  livery  with  gilt  buttons 
and  black  trousers,  arrived  upon  the  steps  before 
him.  .  .  . 

They  did  not  appear  to  listen  as  Robina  explained  to 
the  porter  that  she  had  brought  a  note  for  Lady  Nunbury. 
But  they  heard,  for  they  were  there  to  hear.  Then  the 
porter  said  wheezingly,  for  he  was  troubled  with  asthma : 

"You  can't  give  that  there  note  to  ME,  d'ye  say?"  and 
when  Robina  replied  that  she  was  afraid  she  could  not, 
the  porter  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  and  touched  an  electric 
gong  near  his  elbow,  and  the  glass  doors  of  the  inner  hall 
flew  open  and  two  of  the  tallest  footmen  Robina  had  ever 
seen  with  powdered  hair  and  long  coats  of  emerald-green 
laced  with  silver,  crimson  plush  breeches,  white  silk 
stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  stood  side  by  side  upon  the 
threshold. 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  169 

Four  more  footmen  rather  younger  than  these,  each 
pair  exactly  matching  in  height,  were  ranged  upon  either 
side  of  the  Indian  carpet  covering  the  polished  walnut 
floor.  .  .  .  Their  six  pairs  of  eyes,  all  superciliously 
fixed  upon  Robina,  made  her  feel  less  shy  than  inclined 
to  laugh. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Jimpson  ?"  the  left-handed  man  of  the 
tallest  and  biggest  couple  inquired,  apparently  of  the 
stout  porter,  whose  asthmatic  breathing  Robina  could 
hear  behind  her. 

"Brought  a  message  for  my  lady,"  said  the  porter  over 
Robina's  head.  "With  a  story  as  smooth  and  as  pat 
as  you  please  that  the  paper  is  to  be  delivered  by 
bearer  to  my  lady's  own  hands  and  not  to  nobody 
else's !" 

"Mr.  Chix  shall  decide,"  said  the  footman  who  had 
spoken,  "whether  the  bearer  is  esactly  the  kind  of  coori- 
osity  Her  Ladyship  is  haccustomed  to  receive  even  on 
hordinary  hoccasions?" 

"Net  quite,"  said  the  other  tallest  footman,  super- 
ciliously. "Net  quite,  Mr.  Minns." 

"Whet  is  it?"  said  one  of  the  slimmer,  younger  foot- 
men, looking  down  his  nose  at  Robina.  "A  gipsy's  brat 
or  a  tramp's  kid  ? — name  it,  Mr.  Biles !" 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  say  a  beggin'  letter,"  put  in 
the  footman  who  matched  the  last  speaker,  "if  we  was 
in  Barkly  Squaw.  Not  bein',  cawn't  say,  Stiles,  my  deah 
fellar!" 

This  footman  was  evidently  esteemed  a  wit,  for  an 
approving  smile  appeared  upon  the  large,  rather  pasty 
faces  of  the  other  five. 

"Country  hair  stimulates  Wix,  desh  me  if  it  don't!" 
said  the  first  speaker,  Minns,  admiringly. 

"Meanwhile,"  said  the  footman  who  matched  the 
brilliant  Wix,  "the  question  is  waitin*  to  be  deoided  by 
bellot.  Wich  is  the  appropriate  ticket  to  pin  on  the 


170  A  Sailor's  Home 


article?  Young  middle-class  runaway  or  himmature 
'ighway  cadger?" 

"Hi  should  be  inclined  to  say  the  fermer,"  returned 
Mr.  Wix. 

"Young  runaways — especially  the  female  ones,"  put  in 
the  porter  wheezily,  "being  a  good  deal  sleeker  in  their 
looks  and  smoother-spoken  than  trapesin'  tinkers  and 
sech!" 

"Sorry,"  said  Mr.  Minns,  "to  contradict  an  apinion 
espressed  by  a  chara'ter  bearin'  a  simpular  weight  and 
importance  in  the  family  to  Mr.  Jimpson's.  But  with  the 
heddacation  now  give  in  Board  Schools  to  the  dust  be- 
neath your  feet,  Grammar  goes  for  nothing !" 

"You  may  hev*  the  Best  Blood  in  Hengland  a-biling  in 
your  veins— desh  me  if  you  mayn't,"  said  Mr.  Wix,  "and 
be  without  a  single  haitch  to  your  name,  or  a  fragment 
of  grammar  to  call  your  own." 

"Simpularly,"  pronounced  Mr.  Minns,  "you  might  be 
busting  with  parts  of  speech  and  general  hinfermation, 
and  be  actially  descended  from  the  lowest  circles !" 

"My  opinion  is,"  said  the  porter,  breathing  heavily, 
"that  no  person,  in  these  here  days  at  least,  is  to  be 
judged  by  Chin." 

"Brayvo!"  exclaimed  Biles  and  Stiles  applaudingly. 
"Jimpson  for  never !" 

"These  'ere  Himperial  'Oenzollern  'Uns,"  pursued  Mr. 
Jimpson  asthmatically,  "as  'ave  set  Europe  by  the  years 
and  laid  best  part  of  the  Continong  in  regler  wrack  an' 
ruin,  an'  dropped  bombs  from  Hairships  on  the  'umble 
and  'igh,  are  uncommon  clever  at  training  Spies  to  'elp 
'em  play  their  War  Game.  Accordin'  to  what  I've  read, 
they  begin  to  teach  'em  young,  and  they  use  both  sects 
for  their  purposes.  Suppose — I  only  say  suppose ! — we 
'ave  'ere  a  German  Spy?" 

"Desh  it,  Jimps,  preaps  we'  ev!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wix, 
and  it  seemed  to  Robina  that  the  six  large  pale  footmen 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  171 

grew  even  more  pallid  under  their  powder.  There  was 
an  instant  of  appalled  silence,  broken  by  Mr.  Chix.  He 
wiped  his  large  face  with  a  snow-white  handkerchief  and 
said,  breathingly  heavily: 

"Speaking  strictly  in  the  character  of  a  Clawss  Three 
man  I  am  of  apinion — and  my  catemporary,  Mr.  Minns — 
likewise " 

"  'Ear,  'ear !"  said  Mr.  Minns  eagerly,  and  Mr.  Chix 
resumed : 

"We  are  of  apinion  that  the  honus  of  haction  in  this 
matter  stric'ly  divolves  upon  our  juniars.  Mr.  Biles  and 
Mr.  Stiles,  you  'ave  bin  called  upon  simpulary  with  Mr. 
Wix  and  Mr.  Tibbits  to  quit  private  service  for  the 
Service  of  your  Country.  Even  before  you  lay  aside  the 
'andsome  livery  you  'ave  adorned  in  favour  of  the  hun- 
pretentious  khaki  of  the  British  Soldier,  it  may  be  that 
a  opportunity  for  distinguishing  yourselves  'as  been  laid 
in  your  path."  The  speaker  pointed  to  Robina  and  re- 
tired with  the  majestic  Mr.  Minns  towards  the  upper  end 
of  the  hall.  Mr.  Wix  and  his  contemporary  making  no 
attempt  to  follow  them,  remained  in  the  foreground, 
leaving  Messrs.  Biles  and  Stiles  to  grapple  with  the 
situation. 

"  'Ope  she  don't  carry  no  bombs,  by  any  chawnce !" 
breathed  Mr.  Stiles  to  his  companion. 

"Same  heah,  dear  fellar!"  returned  Mr.  Biles,  with 
very  pronounced  uneasiness.  "My  opinion  is — 'ere's  a  job 
for  Scotland  Yawd.  There's  plenty  of  'tecs  on  the 
premases,  and  for  me  and  you  to  sile  our  'ands,  would 
be  'ideously  hinfra  dig!" 

"Brayvo!"  exclaimed  Stiles.  He  beckoned  hastily  to 
somebody  outside,  and  through  the  glass  doors  leading  to 
the  outer  vestibule  came  the  two  quiet-looking  men  in  the 
plain  dark  blue  livery.  Two  more  had  appeared  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  hall  whither  all  six  footmen  had  now 
retired  in  rather  a  huddled  bevy,  when  a  splendid  curtain 


172  A  Sailor's  Home 

of  gold  and  blue  and  crimson,  hanging  beneath  a  wide 
archway  of  carved  Indian  ebony,  suddenly  split  into  two, 
and  the  figure  of  a  young  and  lovely  lady  stood  in  the 
opening,  against  a  background  of  blazing  steel. 


VII 

"What  is  the  matter?"  the  lady  asked  in  a  voice  that 
was  clear  and  sweet  and  a  little  chilly,  and  as  she  spoke 
the  scared  group  of  footmen  scattered  like  a  flock  of 
gaudy  macaws.  "Who  is  this  little  girl  ?  .  .  .  She  has 
come  here  with  a  private  message  for  me,"  she  repeated 
as  Mr.  Minns  faltered  a  confused  explanation,  "a  mes- 
sage which  she  is  expressly  charged  to  deliver  to  no  one 
else !  For  what  reason  then,  was  she  not  admitted  ?  Why 
has  she  been  made  an  object  of  suspicion?  Why,  will 
you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,  was  I  not  informed?" 

She  turned  kind  encouraging  eyes  upon  the  shy  Robina, 
and  without  waiting  for  the  abashed  Mr.  Minns  or  any  of 
his  comrades  to  volunteer  an  answer,  she  walked  swiftly 
over  the  Indian  carpet  and  taking  a  hand  that  might  have 
been  cleaner  but  for  Robina's  tumble  in  the  mud,  led  her 
through  a  pair  of  double  doors  set  in  a  high  doorway  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  hall,  and  as  the  doors  swung  to 
behind  them  and  a  long  lovely  room  spread  away  as 
though  it  could  never  end.  .  .  . 

"Now,"  said  the  Countess  of  Nunbury,  releasing  her 
light  cool  clasp  of  Robina's  left  hand,  "now  give  me  the 
message  you  have  brought." 

For  all  answer  Robina  unclasped  a  hot  and  clammy 
right  hand,  showing  the  short  crumpled  spill  of  paper  that 
had  been  hidden  there,  and  said  with  more  brevity  than 
elegance : 

"This  is  it!" 

Lady    Nunbury's    delicate    white    fingers    with    their 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  173 

gleaming  pink  nails  and  sparkling  clusters  of  jewels,  took 
the  little  scrap  of  paper  and  unrolled  it  daintily.  Then 
the  deep  gray,  black-lashed  eyes  Robina  (and  many  other 
people)  thought  so  lovely,  bent  upon  the  paper  that  was 
covered  with  small  neat  handwriting,  and  looked  up  with 
a  flash  of  quick  vivid  interest  and  surprise  before  they 
dropped  to  it  again.  Then  resting  upon  her  knee  the 
hand  that  held  the  message,  Lady  Nunbury  stretched  out 
the  other,  and  drew  Robina  to  her,  saying : 

"You — most — extraordinary — young — person,  let  me 
look  at  you  again !  So  you're  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  of 
Mold  End — the  venerable  person  aged  one  hundred-and- 
ten — whom  the  Mayor  and  Mayoress  of  Plashingford 
were  commanded  to  call  upon."  Her  beautiful  gray  eyes 
twinkled  with  laughter,  though  her  mouth  kept  steady 
at  the  corners.  "Poor  Lady  FitzGorringe.  What  a 
shock  she  must  have  had  when  she  found  out  the  truth !" 

"She — they  didn't  find  it  out!"  said  Rosina,  crimson 
to  the  tips  of  her  ears.  "I — pretended  the  old  lady  was 
upstairs  in  bed." 

"My  dear  .    .    . !" 

"I  told  stories,"  went  on  Robina  desperately.  "I  had 
told  them  to  the  two  gentlemen  who  came  to  ask  questions 
for  The  Plashingford  Trumpeter  and  the  other  news- 
paper, and  then  it  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  leave  off  even 
though  I  wanted  to.  And  Perto — that's  my  brother 
Rupert ! — caught  it — like — like  German  measles,  and 
began  telling  stories  too.  Awful  ones!  He  said  he 
couldn't  help  it.  And  that  made  me  feel  that  unless  I 
could  clear  off  the  lies  by  confessing  everything  and 
taking  the  consequences — Perto  would  be  ruined  for  life 
by  my  example !" 

"I  understand!"  said  Lady  Nunbury  softly,  and  her 
eyes  did  not  laugh  any  more. 

"So  I  set  off,"  said  Robina,  "and  the  man  with  the 
pram  and  the  woman  with  the  rabbit-skins  took  away 


174  A  Sailor's  Home 

my  purse  with  my  birthday  postal  orders  and  Nurse's 
shilling " 

"Did  you  tell  that  to  the  gentleman  who  gave  you  the 
paper  for  me?"  asked  Lady  Nunbury. 

"I  forgot,  things  were  so  whirly,"  said  Robina.  "But 
he  couldn't  have  helped  me  to  get  the  money  back,  could 
he?" 

"He  can  do  a  good  deal !"  said  Lady  Nunbury,  smiling. 

"He  makes  you  feel,  when  he  tells  you  to  do  anything, 
as  if  you'd  got  to,"  said  Robina  confidentially.  "I  think 
it  is  something  in  his  eyes,  or  perhaps  it's  his  voice.  I'm 
not  sure !" 

"I  am  going  to  do  something  now  that  he  told  me  to 
do,"  said  Lady  Nunbury,  rising.  She  moved  with  her 
smooth  gliding  step  to  an  electric  bell-button  and  touched 
it  twice,  and  a  discreet-looking  person,  white-haired,  in 
black,  with  a  silver  chain  round  his  neck,  appeared  at  the 
summons.  To  him  Lady  Nunbury  gave  some  directions 
which  Robina  did  not  hear.  She  was  looking  about  the 
long,  light,  lovely  room  with  its  moulded  and  carved  orna- 
ments, and  ancient  hooded  fireplace,  its  glorious  pictures, 
set  in  the  carved  panelling,  its  wonderful  antique  furni- 
ture, the  marvellous  Oriental  china  that  loaded  the 
cabinets  and  shelves  and  the  glowing  tapestries  that 
covered  the  upper  part  of  the  walls  that  were  spanned  by 
a  coffered  and  painted  ceiling  with  the  date  1588  under 
the  heraldic  device  crowning  the  shield  that  was  carved 
upon  the  huge  central  beam.  And  then  the  door  opened : 
the  silver-chained  groom  of  the  chambers  returned,  pre- 
ceded by  Mr.  Minns  and  Mr.  Chix,  who  were  looking 
anything  but  haughty,  carrying  gleaming  trays  of  silver, 
and  while  they  stood  immovable  by  the  door,  supporting 
these,  Mr.  Wix  (under  the  supervision  of  the  personage 
with  the  silver  chain,  which  ended  in  a  key  in  his  waist- 
coat-pocket) spread  a  lovely  lace-bordered  damask  cloth 
upon  a  low  square  Chippendale  table,  and  set  upon  it  dark 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  175 

blue  and  gold  plates  of  Crown  Derby  with  silver  knives, 
and  one  of  the  gleaming  silver  trays  with  a  tea  service 
of  Crown  Derby  matching  the  plates,  and  a  silver  Queen 
Anne  kettle  steaming  over  a  silver  lamp,  and  dishes  con- 
taining delicate  slices  of  bread-and-butter  and  sand- 
wiches of  half-a-dozen  things. 

Last  but  not  least  he  placed  upon  the  table  in  a  Crown 
Derby  dish  a  magnificent  cake,  covered  with  icing,  and 
having  done  this  the  personage  in  black  swept  Mr.  Wix, 
Mr.  Chix  and  Mr.  Minns  from  the  room  with  a  single 
movement  of  his  finger,  and  retiring  himself  through  the 
door  at  which  they  had  entered,  departed,  noiselessly 
closing  the  double  leaves  behind  him. 

"And  now,  come  and  have  some  tea,"  said  Lady  Nun- 
bury,  smiling  at  Robina  as  she  led  her  to  the  table,  "and 
tell  me  if  you  would  care  to  begin  with  cake  or  gradually 
work  up  to  it  through  the  bread-and-butter  and  sand- 
wiches, for  I  am  sure  you  must  be  famished  with  hunger." 
She  added  as  she  saw  Robina's  eyes,  which  were  wist- 
fully fixed  upon  the  cake,  growing  rounder  and  rounder : 

"The  cake  is  a  birthday  cake,  of  course !  and  the  name 
of  the  person  for  whose  birthday  it  is  intended  is  marked 
on  the  icing,  as  you  see." 

Robina  could  see  nothing  else,  for  the  letters  of  the 
name,  boldly  traced  crystalised  pistachio-nuts,  walnuts 
and  preserved  violets  round  the  central  device  of  figures 
were  strangely  familiar. 

"ROBINA  GRAYSON 
Aged  10. 

MANY  HAPPY  RETURNS1." 

was  what  she  spelt  out.  And  having  finished  spelling  she 
stared  at  Lady  Nunbury. 

"Cut  it,  won't  you?"  suggested  Lady  Nunbury. 


176  A  Sailor's  Home 

"But — but "  gasped  Robina,  "it  belong  to  the  other 

Robina  Grayson  who  is  ten  to-day." 

"There  isn't  any  other  Robina  Grayson  here,"  said 
Lady  Nunbury,  "and  the  cake  belongs  to  you.  I  hope 
the  chef  has  spelt  your  name  properly,"  she  went  on,  put- 
ting the  long  shining  silver  knife  in  Robina's  hand,  "be- 
cause he  is  a  Frenchman  who  does  not  speak  much  Eng- 
lish, and  has  been  called  up  to  join  his  Reserve  battalion 
at  the  Front  and  naturally  is  rather  excited." 

"And  Mr.  Biles  and  Mr.  Stiles  and  the  other  two — 
I  forget  their  names !"  said  Robina,  "don't  seem  excited 
at  all." 

Lady  Nunbury  smiled. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "when  they  have  finished  their 
training,  they  may  feel  more  fiery  than  they  do  now. 
They  will  certainly  be  healthier.  And  we  shall  have  no 
male  servants  at  all  unless  those  who  are  too  old  for 
Service — but  nice  maids  in  livery,  and  chauffeuses  in- 
stead of  chauffeurs  for  the  cars.  But,  my  child,  you're 
not  eating  anything,  and  I  have  been  commanded  to  see 
that  Miss  Robina  Grayson  has  a  first-class  tea !" 

Well,  the  lobster  and  caviare  and  smoked  salmon  and 
cucumber  sandwiches  were  very  good,  the  tea  with  plenty 
of  thick  cream  perfectly  delicious,  but  the  cake  was  out- 
and-out  the  most  delectable  item  of  the  feast,  and  when 
Robina  had  had  two  slices : 

"You  are  to  take  the  rest  of  this  home  with  you,  of 
course,"  said  Lady  Nunbury,  "with  some  bon-bons  and 
peaches  and  things  to  share  with  Perto,  who  must  have 
been  frightfully  bored  by  himself  all  the  afternoon." 

Lady  Nunbury  little  dreamed  what  sort  of  time  Perto 
was  really  having.  But  Robina  did  not  know  about  that 
until  she  got  back  to  Laburnum  Cottage. 

"I  am  going  to  send  you  back  early  in  the  auto- 
brougham,'*  said  Lady  Nunbury,  "as  I  have  to  dress  for 
rather  a  particular  dinner,  so  you  will  reach  home  in 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  177 

plenty  of  time.  Why,  my  child,  what  is  the  matter? 
Why  do  you  look  so  shocked  ?" 

"Because  I've  done  a  dreadful  piece  of  forgetfulness," 
gasped  Robina,  "and  now  I've  remembered  with  a  rush. 
Oh,  Lady  Nunbury,  I  told  you  I'd  walked  all  the  way 
here  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  dreadful  thing  I'd 
done  in  writing  that  letter  saying  I  was  a  hundred  and 
ten  years  old  instead  of  ten,  to  the  King,  and  I've  never 
done  what  I  came  to  do !"  She  added :  "I  believe  now 
I  shall  be  too  frightened.  My  legs  shake  like  jellies  and 
my  heart  jumps  like  mad." 

"You  will  not  be  frightened,  will  you,"  said  Lady  Nun- 
bury,  in  her  soft  cooing  voice,  "if  I  hold  your  hand  all 
the  while  you're  telling  the  King  your  story?" 

"Oh,  will  you?"  cried  Robina,  with  a  jump  of  relief. 
"How  good  and  kind  you  are.  Just  as  if  I'd  deserved  you 
to  be !"  she  added  ruefully. 

Sometimes  we  want  kindness  most  when  we  seem 
least  to  deserve  it,"  said  Lady  Nunbury.  "Not  that  I 
think  you  don't  deserve  it,  you  know !  For  to  have  tried 
to  atone  for  a  wrong  done  is  half-way  towards  wiping  it 
out.  Now  give  me  your  hand  and  I  won't  let  it  go  until 
we're  well  outside  the  State  Apartments.  For  we  always 
have  them  ready  when  the  King  comes  to  dine  with  us,  in 
case  he  chooses  to  stay  over  night." 

"The  State  Apartments  are  where  the  King  is?" 
faltered  Robina. 

"Where  the  King  is  is  always  an  Apartment  of  State," 
said  Lady  Nunbury,  as  she  swept  out  of  the  long  draw- 
ing-room, and  through  the  great  middle  hall,  a  tall,  beau- 
tiful vision  in  a  white  cloth  skirt  with  a  blouse  of  delicate 
white  silk  embroidered  and  lace-trimmed,  with  buttons 
and  sleeve-links  of  great  turquoises  matching  the  girdle 
that  clasped  her  slender  waist. 

She  led  Robina  to  the  Indian  archway,  and  as  the 
gorgeous  brocade  curtains  dropped  behind  them,  Robina 


178  A  Sailor's  Home 

found  herself  in  a  long  and  noble  gallery  with  deep  niched 
and  mullioned  windows  running  along  the  outer  side  of  it, 
a  gallery  that  had  at  one  time  been  the  cloister  where  the 
monks  of  Nunbourne  walked  and  read  their  Hours. 
Now  it  was  an  Armoury,  and  the  reddening  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  were  reflected  in  such  dazzling  brilliance  from 
the  long  rows  of  suits  of  armour  and  the  stands  of  hal- 
berds and  lances,  and  the  innumerable  trophies  of 
weapons  upon  the  panelled  walls,  that  Robina  blinked  like 
a  sleepy  kitten  as  she  was  led  along  the  polished  boards 
that  were  strewn  with  splendid  skins  of  lion  and  tiger, 
bear  and  bison  and  other  big  game  shot  by  Lord  Nunbury, 
in  his  bachelor  days. 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  of  armour  was  a  smaller  hall 
with  a  high  domed  and  painted  ceiling,  and  heavy  blue 
velvet  curtains,  where  were  waiting  several  superior 
attendants  in  dark  blue  coats  with  brass  buttons  and  black 
trousers  and  patent  shoes. 

After  the  ante-room  came  a  superb  reception-room 
with  portraits  of  gentlemen  in  armour  with  long  curls, 
and  ladies  with  bare  necks  and  powdered  heads  and  won- 
derful hoop-skirts  upon  the  walls ;  and  furniture  just  like 
the  chairs  and  tables  in  the  pictures.  Nobody  was  in  the 
room,  except  a  small  rough-haired  fox-terrier  curled  up 
in  a  deep  bow-legged  gilt  chair,  covered  with  rose-bro- 
cade. He  woke  up  at  the  entrance  of  Lady  Nunbury  and 
seemed  very  glad  to  see  her,  and  permitted  Robina  to  pat 
him  in  a  very  condescending  way,  she  thought,  for  a  dog 
who  belonged  to  the  King.  And  he  followed  them 
through  the  State  Apartments. 

The  whole  of  the  West  Wing  was  occupied  by  the 
State  Apartments,  and  they  were  grander  and  more 
splendid  than  the  rooms  occupied  by  Lady  Nunbury,  if 
not  quite  as  pretty  on  the  whole.  The  library  was  ninety 
feet  long,  lined  with  magnificent  volumes  and  with  a 
great  hooded  fireplace. 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  179 

"I  cannot  show  you  the  smoking-room,  or  the  Private 
Cabinet,  or  the  Royal  bedrooms,"  said  Lady  Nunbury. 
"But  in  the  dining-room  I  trust  we  shall  find " 

"The  King?"  whispered  Robina,  round-eyed  and  very 
pale.  "But  does  he — does  he  know  we're  corning?" 
Oughtn't  we — oughtn't  we  to  send  the  Groom  of  the 
Chambers — you  said  the  man  with  the  silver  chain  was 
the  Groom  of  the  Chambers — to  crave  an  audience? 
People  crave  audiences  of  Kings  in  Walter  Scott's 
novels.  Or  oughtn't  we — at  the  very  least — to  be  an- 
nounced ?" 

"We  will  be  announced,"  said  Lady  Nunbury,  laugh- 
ing softly.  "We'll  send  Dannie  to  announce  us." 

And  she  softly  opened  the  beautiful  carved  door  of  the 
dining-room,  and  Dannie,  the  rough-haired  terrier, 
trotted  in,  his  ears  sharply  pricked  and  his  tail  very  stiffly 
held. 

The  dining-room  was  small,  but  a  marvel  of  the  art  of 
the  most  skilful  wood-carver  the  world  has  ever  known 
or  will  know.  There  was  only  one  picture  in  this  room 
and  that  was  upon  the  wall  over  the  low  wide  fireplace, 
set  in  a  marvellous  frame  of  flowers  and  birds  and  foliage 
carved  by  the  hand  of  Grindling  Gibbons  into  the  very 
semblance  of  life.  Light  from  the  stone-mullioned,  deep- 
seated  windows  that  looked  out  upon  a  small  private 
garden  full  of  exquisite  flowers,  fell  upon  it,  and  in  a 
moment : 

"Oh !  Oh !  OH  !"  cried  Robina  in  a  high  crescendo  of 
astonished  recognition.  For  the  face  crowning  the 
ermine-robed  figure  of  a  brown-bearded,  blue-eyed 
middle-aged  man  in  a  Field  Marshal's  uniform,  sparkling 
with  orders,  wearing  the  splendid  collar  of  the  George  and 
seated  in  a  gilded  chair  of  estate  against  an  embroidered 
panel  bearing  the  British  Royal  Arms,  was  that  of  the 
the  officer  to  whom  Robina  had  told  her  story  on  the  road 
to  Nunbury. 


i8o  A  Sailor's  Home 

And  the  officer  was  none  other  than  The  King.   .    .    . 

It  was  overwhelming. 

It  was  splendid. 

It  was  awful! 

These  three  sentences  convey  Robina's  sentiments  to  a 
hair.  Perhaps  the  awfulness  predominated  over  the 
splendidness,  but  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  over- 
whelmingosity,  Robina  thought.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  guess  ?  .  .  .  But  of  course  you  knew  .  .  . 
The  piece  of  paper  told  you  ..."  she  said,  looking 
at  Lady  Nunbury,  to  whom  the  King  had  written  about 
a  naughty  little  girl  in  a  battered  straw  hat  and  an  inky 
schoolroom  apron,  who  had  pretended  to  be  the  oldest 
inhabitant  of  Mold  End,  and  so  proved  herself  to  be  un- 
doubtedly the  most  presumptuous.  "Was  it  because  of 
that  you  were  so  kind  ?  .  .  .  and  the  birthday  cake  and 
everything?  ...  I  ...  really  .  .  .  believe  it  .  .  ." 
Robina  could  not  go  on.  The  tears  of  joy  and  pride  and 
regret  were  tumbling  down  her  cheeks.  And  Lady  Nun- 
bury  dried  them  with  her  deliciously  scented  cambric 
handkerchief  before  she  kissed  them  and  said: 

"It  is  true,  my  dear !  I  was  obeying  a  command — just 
as  you  were  when  you  brought  me  that  pencilled  scrap  of 
paper.  And  I  think — and  I  believe  the  King  thinks  too — 
when  next  you  are  inclined  to  play  off  a  hoax  upon  any- 
body, you  will  remember  what  a  different  ending  this  day 
would  have  had  for  you,  if  he  himself  had  been  less  kind. 
For  Shakespeare  wrote  of  the  divinity  that  doth  hedge  a 
King,  and  One  Who  ordained  that  Kings  should  rule,  has 
told  us  that  we  are  to  honour  them." 

Half-an-hour  later,  Robina,  hugging  a  giant  cardboard 
box,  and  carrying  a  basket  of  hothouse  peaches,  got  out 
of  the  Abbey  motor-brougham,  and  as  the  liveried 
chauffeur  opened  the  gate  for  her  and,  respectfully  touch- 
ing his  cap,  wished  her  good-evening,  she  came  up  the 
path  leading  to  Miss  Twigger's  front  door,  and  the  said 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  181 

door,  opening  apparently  of  its  own  volition,  discovered 
Perto  on  the  threshold.  Even  by  the  hall  light  he  appeared 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  were  nearly  as  round  and  bright  as 
Robina's. 

"Whatever  made  you  go  and  take  yourself  off  like 
that,"  he  cried,  dancing  with  excitement,  "when  the  fun 
was  only  beginning?  Why,  we've  had  three  bands  here, 
a  Punch  and  Judy,  and  a  lot  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  who 
said  they  were  the  Village  Glee  Club  and  had  come  to 
sing  a  Birthday  Ode,  and  they  came  in  and  took  Miss 
Twigger — at  least,  some  of  them  did — for  the  Miss 
Robina  Grayson  who  is  a  hundred  and  ten  years  old,  and 
said  how  well  she  looked  for  her  time  of  life  and  regu- 
larly sent  her  into  fits." 

"Oh  dear !"  said  Robina  remorsefully. 

"She  hasn't  done  any  fitting — not  really!"  said  Perto, 
"so  don't  groan.  But  she  might  have  if  the  mounted 
Inspector  of  Police  hadn't  come  riding  up  and  explained 
to  everybody  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  mistake  which 
had  been  explained  to  the  Mayor  of  Plashingford  and  the 
Vicar  of  Mold  End,  and  the  Editors  of  The  Plashingford 
Trumpeter  and  The  County  Indicator,  to  their  entire 
satisfaction.  And  what  more  was  said  I  don't  know. 
Only  the  bands  and  the  Punch  and  Judy  and  the  Glee 
Clubbers  just  melted  away.  And  Miss  Twigger  tied  up 
her  head  and  went  straight  to  bed,  because  her  nerves 
had  been  so  jangled.  And  she's  ordered  Patent  Cereal 
Food  for  supper  instead  of  her  two  poached  eggs,  per- 
haps because  she  thinks  it  will  make  her  look  younger,  or 
else  because  Shackleton-Peary  has  been  stolen.  I  don't 
envy  the  people  who  did  it,  do  you,  when  he  begins 
nipping  their  feet?  My  word! — what  peaches!  Who 
gave  'em  to  you — and  what  have  you  got  in  the  box?" 

The  rest  of  Robina's  cake  was  in  the  box,  and  a  smaller 
one  exactly  like  it,  with  this  legend  on  the  top  icing  in 
crystallised  pistachios,  and  walnuts,  and  violets: 


1 82  A  Sailor's  Home 

"PERTO 

AN  UNBIRTHDAY 

PRESENT." 

You  may  imagine  whether  Perto  revelled  in  his  un- 
birthday  present  or  not.  And  Miss  Twigger,  reassured  by 
Robina  as  to  the  ultimate  recovery  of  her  beloved  cat, 
consented  to  eat  her  poached  eggs  for  supper  after  all. 
As  to  Robina  and  Perto,  and  Emma,  who  had  what  Perto 
called  a  whacking  slice  of  each  of  the  cakes,  their  supper 
was  of  unimaginable  deliciousness.  And  you,  if  you 
suppose  that  either  of  them  had  bad  dreams  afterwards, 
you  are  mistaken  indeed.  Both  slept  like  tops  and 
awakened  happily,  though  Robina  felt  anxious  when  the 
newspaper  boy  brought  The  Plashingford  Trumpeter  for 
Miss  Twigger  in  the  usual  course  of  things. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  feverishly  to  herself,  "whether 
Mr.  Ticking  has  put  in  all  those  dreadfully  made-up 
things  I  told  him  about  Miss  Robina  Grayson — my  find- 
ing her  deserted  and  starving  on  the  sands  at  Lyme 
Regis  and  adopting  her  as  a  great-aunt  and  all  the  rest  ?" 

But  Miss  Twigger  perused  her  Trumpeter  calmly, 
without  going  into  fits,  and  when  Robina  at  last  secured 
the  paper  and  raced  with  feverish  activity  through  its 
columns,  not  a  single  reference  did  she  discover  there  to 
the  venerable  Miss  Robina  Grayson  and  her  predilection 
for  skipping,  beefsteaks  and  potted  lobster,  and  this  gave 
the  conscious-stricken  inventor  of  the  astonishing  old 
lady  cause  to  hope  that  The  County  Indicator  might  prove 
equally  bare  of  the  details  so  eagerly  gathered  by  Mr. 
Mounteney.  As  a  fact  it  was,  and  whether  Mr.  Ticking 
of  the  Trumpeter  had  lost  his  notebook  on  the  way  home, 
and  whether  Mr.  Mounteney  of  The  County  Indicator 
had  sent  his  cuffs  to  the  wash,  forgetting  that  they  were 
of  paper  and  covered  with  notes — or  whether  the  Editors 
of  both  papers  had  been  advised  to  suppress  the  inter- 


The  Oldest  Inhabitant  183 

view — Robina  never  knew  for  certain,  but  something  told 
her  that  the  last  explanation  might  be  the  most  correct 
one. 

The  portrait  that  is  in  the  Grindling  Gibbons  frame 
over  the  fireplace  of  the  small  dining-room  of  the  State 
suite  of  apartments  at  Nunbury  Abbey  has  been  photo- 
graphed by  a  Royal  photographer  and  many  copies  have 
been  sold.  Robina,  having  saved  up  her  weekly  sixpence 
for  a  sufficient  number  of  weeks,  became  the  owner  of 
one  of  these.  It  was  hung  up  where  it  always  will  hang, 
in  her  own  room  at  home  above  the  little  writing-table 
where  she  prepared  her  High  School  themes  and  exercises 
and  later  on  read  up  for  her  qualifying  examination  for 
a  member  of  the  V.A.D.  of  the  British  Red  Cross  Society. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  some  animal-loving  reader  to 
know  that  Miss  Twigger  received  back  Shackleton-Peary 
much  mellowed  in  temper  from  the  kindly  hands  of  the 
vet.  And  that  old  Mrs.  Shakerly  lived  long  enough  to 
be  personally  congratulated  by  the  Mayor  and  Mayoress 
of  Plashingford,  serenaded  by  three  bands  and  the  Glee 
Club,  and  interviewed  by  the  representatives  of  The 
Plashingford  Trumpeter  and  The  County  Indicator  on 
the  attainment  of  her  hundred  and  first  year. 


VIII 
BEAUTY  WHILE  YOU  WAIT 

IT'S  a  good  thing  to  'ave,  but  it  brings  trouble.  There 
was  the  lady  Mother  'ad  me  christened  after  being 
give  a  couple  of  orders  for  the  Gallery  at  Covent  Garden 
by  the  gentleman  where  she  chared.  Loosha  of  Lam- 
Her-More  was  her  name — and  would  she  'ave  come  to 
what  she  came  to,  if  she  'adn't  bin  beautiful? — miserably 
marrying  the  wrong  young  man,  an'  going  mad  in  her 
top  notes  at  Edgar's  reproaches — Edgar  being  the  young 
man  she'd  throwed  over,  and  'andsome  too,  with  his 
deadly  complexion  and  black  feathers — till  the  'ole  'ouse 
applauded. 

Beauty  is  beauty  an'  make-up  is  make-up,  though  some- 
times the  two  gets  that  mixed,  you  can't  'ardly  tell  one 
from  the  other.  But  what  I  will  say  is — the  newest  an' 
most  fashionable  shape  in  figgers  is  not  to  be  reached  by 
'uman  means  alone.  But  with  regards  to  them  young 
persons  as  you  see  in  the  ladies'  picture-papers,  some- 
times without  heads,  but  always  leaving  off  below  the 
knee  and  might  'ave  left  off  earlier.  What  I  ast  is,  'Ow 
is  it  done?  and  at  least  one  solid  meal  a  day  being  a 
necessity  of  Nature,  where  is  it  to  be  put  ? 

I  once  went  for  to  call  upon  a  Beauty  Speshulist  at  a 
time  in  life  when  my  feelings  was  above  my  reason,  and 
an  un'appy  attachment  to  one  above  my  stations  in  life 
led  me  to  long  for  a  fair  flower-like  face  and  swan-like 
busk,  an*  white  hands  like  one  of  the  lady  'eroines  in  the 

184 


Beauty  While  You  Wait  185 

"Penny  Romancer."  Him  having  gone  for  his  yearly 
fortnight's  'oliday  an'  the  other  lodgers  'aving  dwindled 
to  a  elderly  gentleman  with  a  wig  on  the  second  floor 
back  and  a  young  lady  in  the  Trying-On  Department 
what  took  'er  meals  out,  I  'ad  the  chance  of  a  'ole  day 
off  an'  took  it. 

Madame  Claudeen  was  the  Beauty  Speshulist  I'd  made 
up  my  mind  should  'elp  me  to  win  a  'art  that  elseways 
would  never  beat  for  me,  for  I'd  'card  'im  tell  a  friend, 
another  gentleman  in  the  butter,  pork,  and  general  pro- 
vision line,  as  he  should  never  reely  love  until  he  met  a 
maiden  beauteous  as  a  goddess  of  Ancient  Grease. 
Madame  'ad  a  address  in  a  turnin'  out  of  Bond-street  on 
the  third  landing  up.  There  were  two  young  ladies  in 
the  outside  room,  pretendin'  to  be  busy  when  they  'eard 
a  step.  They  swopped  a  wink  when  I  come  in  an'  the 
tallest  one  she  swum  languidly  over  the  carpet  an  spoke 
to  me  in  a  lofty,  patronizing  kind  of  tone : 

"Did  you  bring  a  message?"  says  she. 

I  tells  her  straight  I  ain't  brought  no  message  an  I've 
come  on  my  own. 

"Indeed !"  says  the  young  lady,  sniggering  at  the  other. 
"We  don't  attend  to  clients  of  your  rank  in  life  as  a  rule," 
an'  glances  in  a  mankle  glass  as  the  waves  in  'er  'air  must 
'ave  took  'ours  to  do,  unless  she  slep'  with  'er  head  in  a 
bandbox. 

"I  should  'ave  supposed  as  one  'arf  guinea  is  as  good 
as  another,"  I  says,  showing  'er  a  glimpse  of  'arf  a 
sovereign  I  'ad  ready  in  my  glove,  'aving  bin  paid  my 
quarter's  wages  of  one  pound  ten  and  eight  only  that 
mornin'.  "  'Owever,  if  not,  there's  other  establish- 
ments in  the  West  End,"  and  I  turns  'aughtily  on  my 
'eel. 

"Did  you  require  simple  face-treatment,  massage,  or 
electrolenses  ?"  asks  the  young  lady,  climbin'  down  from 
'er  'igh  'orse,  "or  all  three  ?"  And  not  knowin'  what  any 


1 86  A  Sailor's  Home 

of  the  things  meant,  I  said  I  thought  all  three  would  be 
best. 

"Madame's  charge  will  be  a  guinea  and  a  'arf,"  says 
the  second  young  lady. 

"In  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound,"  thinks  I,  "an'  that 
leaves  me  eightpence  to  carry  on  with  for  a  quarter." 
But  I  smiled  cold  and  careless  like  an'  forked  out  the 
sovereign.  It  was  an  awful  sight  of  money  to  pay  away, 
but  I  din't  grudge  it  to  be  made  beautiful. 

"Will  you  'ave  manicure  as  well,  and  'air-waving  an' 
tinting?"  asks  the  first  young  lady,  who'd  got  quite  civil. 
"Because  we  employ  specialists  in  both  branches."  My 
'art  sank  into  the  soles  of  my  feet  when  she  said  as  that 
would  come  to  'arf  a  guinea  more,  but  I  plucked  up 
courage  and  said  I'd  have  both  if  a  sovereign  an'  ten  an' 
six  covered  the  complete  course. 

"Madame  does  not  make  such  bargains,"  says  the 
young  lady  as  spoke  last. 

"All  right,  miss,"  says  I,  "as  I'll  'unt  up  another 
Madame  'oo  will."  An'  I  bid  'em  both  good-morning, 
but  they  calls  me  back  in  a  'urry,  an'  after  some  talkin' 
through  a  speakin'  tube  that  went  through  the  wall  into 
the  nex'  room,  they  took  my  one,  ten,  six,  an'  give  me  a 
pink  satin  ticket  scented  most  lovely. 

"Madame  is  engaged  with  the  Duchess  of  Dimblemere, 
the  Countess  of  Crumplehorn,  and  Lady  Longshaw,"  says 
the  first  young  lady,  "but  in  'arf  an  'our  she  will  be  free 
to  attend  to  you."  An'  they  give  me  a  red  velvet  chair, 
an'  I  set  down  an'  waited.  No  duchess  didn't  come  sailin' 
out  of  the  nex'  room,  nor  no  countess,  neither;  only  a 
greasy  young  man  in  a  white  apern,  with  upright  'air, 
went  in  between  the  pale  blue  velvet  door-curtains, 
carryin'  a  tray  with  a  pewter-pot  an'  a  covered  tin  dish, 
an'  come  back  without,  an'  then  there  was  a  smell  of 
chops  as  made  me  feel  'ungry.  An'  both  of  the  young 
ladies  put  on  their  'ats,  one  after  the  other,  an'  went  out 


Beauty  While  You  Wait  187 

to  lunch  in  turns.  It  must  have  been  a  'our  before 
Madame  Claudeen  ranged  a  little  bell,  an'  I  was  showed 
into  the  nex'  room.  It  'ad  no  second  door,  and  there  was 
no  more  sign  of  duchesses  an'  countesses  than  of  the 
chops  Madame  Claudeen  'ad  bin  eating. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  rose-coloured  blinds  an'  pale  blue 
velvet  'angin's,  but  she  certainly  did  seem  a  lovely  creetur 
in  a  amber  velvet  tea-gown  cut  low  in  the  neck  an'  short 
sleeves,  though  stouter  than  when  in  early  youth.  'Er 
face  was  the  loveliest  smooth  pink-an '-white  you  ever  see, 
an'  she  'ad  waves  upon  waves  of  golden  'air  an'  lips  as 
red  as  sealing-wax,  an'  large  dark  eyes  trimmed  with 
.blue.  An'  you  could  see  the  veins  as  blue  on  'er  white 
skin  as  if  they  'ad  bin  drawed  on  it.  An'  rosy  nails  as 
shiny  as  you  could  'ave  seen  your  face  in  'em.  She 
smiled  at  me  with  a  flash  of  pearly  teeth  an'  gold  stop- 
pings, an'  I  fair  opened  my  'art  to  'er  and  told  'er  I  'ad 
come  to  be  made  beautiful.  An'  Madame  Claudeen  made 
me  take  off  my  'at  an'  jacket  an'  turn  down  the  neck  of 
my  three-an'-eleven  silk  blouse,  an'  put  on  a  cotton 
dressin'-gownd,  an'  my  'art  jumped  into  the  roof  of  my 
mouth  as  I  thought  of  one,  as  shall  be  for  ever  nameless, 
comin'  back  in  a  fortnight  from  yesterday  to  find  the 
humble  Loosha  beauteous  as  one  of  them  goddesses  of 
Ancient  Grease  what  he  was  always  talkin'  about. 

I  must  say  Madame  Claudeen  knoo  'er  business  to  a 
tick.  First  she  got  a  little  tin-pot  with  a  sperrit  lamp  an' 
lighted  the  lamp,  an'  when  the  water  in  the  pot  begins 
to  steam  she  'eld  it  under  my  nose  until  I  was  'arf 
b'iled ;  and,  judgin'  from  the  glimp  I  'ad  of  meself  in  the 
glass  over  the  shampoo-basin,  lobsters  couldn't  be  redder. 
An'  then  she  rubs  my  face  over  with  a  nice-smellin' 
paste,  an'  scrapes  the  paste  off  with  a  scraper,  an'  then 
with  a  thing  like  a  toy  garden  roller  she  goes  over  me 
from  me  eye-brows  to  me  chin  an'  back  again,  over 
an'  over. 


1 88  A'  Sailor's  Home 


"This,"  she  says,  "is  to  illimilate  the  'ard  lines  of  care 
and  soften  the  fatigued  linements  to  the  rounded  contoors 
of  earliest  youth.  When  this  process  is  finished  we  will 
tint  the  'air  with  our  celebrated  Flooid  Door,  an'  while 
it  is  drying  we  will  apply  our  wonderful  Skin  Food." 

Took  aback  is  not  the  word  for  me  when  I  found 
Madame  an*  a  young  lady  she'd  called  in'  to  'elp  'er  meant 
to  wash  my  'ead  before  tintin'  my  'air  with  the  Flooid 
Door.  But  what  'ad  to  be,  'ad,  an'  when  the  rinshing 
an'  towellin*  was  over  they  dabbed  my  'ead  all  over  with 
a  wet  sponge  they  kep'  a  dippin'  in  a  green  glass  saucer, 
an'  brought  a  tin  thing  like  a  chimney-cowl  up  behind 
my  chair  an  puffed  'ot  air  down  the  back  of  my  neck 
until  I  could  'ave  prayed  for  mercy. 

"Now  we  will  apply  our  famous  Skin  Food,"  says 
Madame,  emptying  some  thick  pinky-white  stuff  out  of  a 
bottle  into  a  pink  glass  saucer,  an'  she  gets  a  cotton-wool 
dabber  an*  dabs  me  all  over.  "Smile  as  little  as  you 
possibly  can,"  says  she,  "while  the  medium  is  drying," 
an'  she  opens  a  box  full  of  pink  stuff  an'  takes  another 
bit  o'  clean  cotton-wool  and 

"  'Old  'ard,  mum,"  I  says,  as  'er  'and  comes  my  way. 
"That  ain't— paint,  is  it?" 

"Of  course  not,"  says  Madame  Claudeen.  "This  is  our 
exquisit  Bloom  of  Health,  and  this,"  an'  she  opened  a  pot 
of  red  lip-salve,  "this  is  our  Rosy  Glow.  Do  not  imagine 
for  a  minnit  that  we  employ  cosmasticks  in  this  establish- 
ment," she  goes  on,  takin'  a  little  bottle  of  blackin'  out 
of  a  drawer  an'  dippin'  a  brush  in  it.  "Nothink  so  vulgar 
is  employed  in  our  Course  of  Treatment,  and  the  effec's 
we  arrive  at  are  those  of  Nature  and  not  of  Art."  And  as 
she  keeps  on  a-talkin',  she  keeps  on  a-working  one  as 
fast  as  the  other — until  that  lovely  complexion  of  'ers 
begins  to  get  a  bit  streaky  an'  the  lovely  blue  borders  to 
'er  eyes  runs  into  a  smudge,  an*  I  see  as  she  must  be 
forty-five  if  a  day. 


Beauty  While  You  Wait  189 

Will  you  believe  it,  when  they'd  waved  my  'air  an' 
done  it  up,  an'  soaked  my  'ands  an'  done  my  nails  with 
plate  powder  an'  pink  paste,  an'  taken  off  the  cotton 
dressin'-gownd,  and  give  me  the  'and  mirror  to  look  in, 
I  could  not  'ave  believed  that  face  I  see  in  it  belonged 
to  Loosha  Hemmans.  For  one  thing,  I  'ad  a  complexion 
as  pink  an'  white  as  Madame  Claudeen's  'ad  bin  wken  I 
fust  come  in,  an'  my  'air  'ad  become  a  goldeny-brown, 
with  greenish  lights  an'  lovely  waves  in  it.  My  arched 
dark  eyebrows  would  'ave  befitted  one  of  the  young  lady 
'eroines  in  the  "Penny  Romancer."  My  lips  was  a 
lovely  red,  an'  my  eyes  was  rimmed  with  blue  an'  'ad 
an  appealing  kind  of  languishin'  look  I  never  'ad  noticed 
before.  I  'ad  only  eight-pence  left  off  my  quarter's 
wages,  but  I  was  a  fair  treat  to  look  at.  Talk  of  the 
goddesses  of  Ancient  Grease !  If  any  one  of  'em  'ad  as 
much  attention  goin'  'ome  in  the  omlibus  as  I  'ad,  she 
might  'ave  bin  proud.  With  a  conductor  which  I  'ope 
were  not  a  married  man  spendin'  more  time  inside  than 
out,  an'  every  female  passenger  ready  to  bite  my  'ead  off. 
My  missus  was  out  when  I  got  'ome,  'aving  taken  the 
opportunity  of  goin'  to  the  theatre,  but  when  the  evening's 
milk  come  clashing  cans  down  the  area  steps  an'  the  five 
o'clock  postman  knocked  with  a  circular,  I  begun  to 
compre'end  the  power  of  Beauty,  for  neither  of  them 
two  men  could  tear  themselves  away  under  a  promise  of 
walking  out  on  Sunday,  an'  when  I  took  in  'is  tea  to  the 
elderly  gentleman  with  a  wig  what  lodged  on  the  second 
floor,  'e  couldn't  'ardly  bear  to  think  of  my  carry  in'  the 
tray,  though  one  as  would  ring  for  coals  constant  an' 
grumble  if  you  stopped  on  the  first  floor  with  'arf  a 
'undred  in  the  scuttle.  I  took  a  long  time  undressin'  for 
bed  that  night,  an'  went  to  sleep  with  a  lighted  candle 
an'  a  lookin'  glass  on  the  chest  o'  drawers  opposite  the 
bed,  so  as  I  could  gaze  on  my  own  loveliness  whenever  I 
woke  up.  But  I  forgot  to  wake  up,  an'  when  the  missus 


190  A  Sailor's  Home 


bell  rang  I  jumped  up,  'ad  the  usual  'asty  wash  with  a 
bit  o'  Sungleam  Soap,  an'  run  down  to  light  the  fires 
an'  get  the  breakfastes  with  a  happy  'art.  The  kittle  was 
on  the  boil  when  I  'ears  a  tremenjous  ringin'  at  the  'all 
door.  'Ow  my  'art  beat  when  I  drawed  the  bolteses  I 
never,  no!  never,  shall  forget.  'Im  as  shall  ever  be 
nameless  'ad  returned  unexpected  from  the  seaside  in 
a  taxi ! 

"  'Ow  are  you,  Loosha  ?"  says  he. 

"  'Ow  are  you,  Mr.  Simms  ?"  I  says,  smiling  an'  turn- 
ing my  beautiful  face  up  at  'im. 

'E  give  a  sort  of  crowing  cry  an'  'is  eyes  got  as  round 
as  sorcers.  ...  I  keeps  on  smiling,  waiting  for  what 
would  come.  It  come  when  'e  dropped  into  the  'all  chair 
an'  larfed  as  if  Vd  kill  'isself,  and  the  cabman  what  was 
waitin'  to  be  paid  larfed  too,  an'  the  milkman  an'  the 
early  post  what  'ad  arrived  simpultaneous,  grinned  from 
year  to  year. 

"What  ever  'ave — you  done — to  yourself — gal  ?"  gasps 
him  as  I  shall  never  name. 

"Nothink,  Mr.  Simms,"  says  I,  with  the  innocent  kind 
of  smile  them  "Penny  Romancer"  'eroines  always  'ad 
on  tap.  "Why  do  you  ast  me,  sir?" 

"G— go  an'  look  in  the — the  glass  !"  he  gaspses. 

"Yus,  go  an'  look  in  the  glass,  miss !"  says  the  cabman 
'oarsely. 

"Yes,  do  go  an*  'ave  a  look  in  the  glass !"  says  the  early 
milk  an'  the  postman. 

There  was  a  glass  in  the  'all  'at-stand.  I  give  one 
stare  in  it — an'  when  I  see  my  face  one  mask  of  smudges 
— pink  an'  black  an'  blue  an'  white,  under  my  dyed  'air — 
then  I  knowed  all. 

You  can  buy  Beauty,  if  you  'ave  enough  money  to  pay 
for  it — but  it  ain't  the  sort  to  wash. 


IX 
THE  YOUNG  MAN  FROM  MAWLEY'S 

THE  discreet,  gray-faced,  sadly-clothed  man  out  of 
livery  answered  the  touch  on  the  electric  door-bell 
and  the  modestly  restrained  knock  at  the  hall-door.  An 
avalanche  of  dogs,  mainly  of  the  fox-terrier  breed, 
poured  out  of  the  house  upon  the  plainly  but  well  dressed 
stranger  who  stood  upon  the  india-rubber  porch-mat  with 
a  flat  box  beneath  his  arm.  A  yard  of  Dandie  Dinmont 
followed,  and  promptly  sat  up  on  end,  balancing  himself 
with  his  heavy  splayed  forepaws,  and  showing  in  the 
beautiful  brown  eyes  under  his  gray  hair  tangles  the 
emotional  and  sudden  friendship  that  he  could  not  convey 
by  tail-wagging  without  tumbling  over. 

"Dear  little  beast !"  said  the  man  with  the  box,  before 
he  even  looked  at  Prynne.  And  he  softly  rubbed  Dandie 
under  the  chin  with  the  point  of  a  well-made  boot. 

"He  may,  and  do,  carry  a  tradesman's  box,"  reflected 
Prynne,  "but  he  is  certainly  no  tradesman — not  unless 
my  experience  of  gentlemen  is  at  fault,  that  is."  At  least 
he  said  afterwards  in  the  servants'-hall  that  these  words 
had  framed  themselves  in  his  mind.  But  all  he  said  was 
— "  'Ad  you  any  appointment  with  her  ladyship,  sir  ?  She 
is  particular  engaged  to-day." 

"I  am  a  traveller,"  said  the  young  man  who  carried 
the  box,  "in  the  service  of  Messrs.  Mawley,  orchid- 
growers,  of  Blittingdon,  Sussex,  and  happening  to  be  in 
the  neighbourhood  upon  business,  and  knowing  that  her 

191 


192  A  Sailor's  Home 


ladyship  was  a  fancier" — he  waved  his  hand  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  imposing  rows  of  tropical  houses  which,  with 
their  stove-flues  smoking  vigorously,  rose  in  recently 
painted  immaculateness  at  the  lower  end  of  the  shrub- 
bery lawn — "I  ventured  to  call.  Some  country  neigh- 
bours of  her  ladyship's  have  already  favoured  me  with 
rather  extensive  orders,  but  I  have  here" — he  tapped  the 
box  invitingly — "some  samples  of  bloom  that  have  not 
yet  been  submitted  to  any  purchaser.  It  is  unfortunate 
that  her  ladyship  should  be  so  much  engaged.  How- 
ever. ..."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  straightened 
his  hat,  tucked  his  box  more  firmly  under  his  arm,  and 
nodded  good-day. 

Prynne  wavered.  "To  tell  the  truth,  sir,  a  domestic 
event  of  the  nature  of  a  wedding  is  in  the  wind.  In  fact, 
it  takes  place  to-morrow,  and  as  I  happened  to  'ear  this 
morning,  that,  through  an  unaccountable  negligence  on 
the  part  of  the  gardener  who  have  the  care  of  the  tropical 
'ouses,  a  whole  row  of  her  ladyship's  most  prized  and 
lovely  finger-glass  specimens  had  been  discovered  to  be 
nipped  most  cruel  by  setting  in  proximity  to  the  glass, 
pre'aps  I  ought  to  mention  to  her  ladyship  that  you  have 
called." 

"Please  yourself,"  said  the  stranger  agreeably.  He 
walked  into  the  hall,  threw  an  appreciative  eye  over  the 
Jacobean  carved  screen  and  the  great  sculptured  marble 
fireplace,  and  waited  immovably,  hat  in  hand,  while 
Prynne  knocked  at  the  drawing-room  door. 

"I  wonder  whether  I  ought  to  have  gone  round  to 
the  tradesmen's  entrance?"  wondered  this  young  man, 
glancing  at  the  box.  He  became  aware  of  the  humming 
activity  of  an  unseen  household  on  the  verge  of  a  wedding 
as  he  stood  in  the  entrance  of  the  domestic  hive. 
Scattered  on  the  Turkey  carpet  and  on  the  black-and- 
white  marble  lozenges  of  the  pavement  were  sheets  and 
crumpled  balls  of  silver  paper,  fragments  of  sealing-wax, 


The  Young  Man  from  Mawley's         193 

trails  of  cut  and  knotted  string.  Piled  on  an  armorial 
chest  were  cardboard  boxes  and  parcels  large  and  small. 
Every  moment  the  swing-door  leading  to  the  servants' 
quarters  and  tradesmen's  entrance  would  open,  and  a 
heated  maid  or  an  under- footman  in  a  striped  jacket 
would  come  and  add  to  the  pile  of  parcels,  the  pyramid 
of  boxes,  and  vanish  again. 

"Wedding  presents,"  murmured  the  young  man  who 
had  come  from  Mawley's.  "Damn  'em!"  he  added,  and 
bit  the  longest  hair  of  his  moustache.  He  could  smell 
the  wedding-cake  that  stood  upon  the  great  sideboard  of 
that  jealously-shut-up  dining-room,  in  and  out  of  which 
hired  assistant-waiters  in  white  aprons  and  cooks'  caps 
were  flitting.  The  whole  house  reeked  of  the  sacrifice 
that  was  perhaps  to  be.  He  cautiously  climbed  the 
Jacobean  oak  staircase  with  his  eye,  knowing  that  the 
bedroom  and  boudoir  of  the  bride-elect  were  upon  the 
second  floor  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  Perhaps  she  was 
at  this  very  moment  locked  up  in  those  rooms  weeping 
and  calling  for  her  Young  Lochinvar.  Young  Lochinvar 
felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat  at  the  mental  picture. 

All  this  while  Prynne  did  not  return.  When  at  last  he 
emerged  from  the  drawing-room  it  was  with  an  eye 
emptied  of  all  knowledge  of  the  young  man  with  the  box. 
An  insistent  voice  followed  Prynne  and  dragged  him 
back,  breathlessly  expostulating. 

"Yes,  my  lady;  two,  my  lady.  I'll  tell  Walker  im- 
mediate, my  lady."  Then  he  fled  up  the  Jacobean  stair- 
case like  a  hunted  ghost. 

And  directly  afterwards,  with  a  little  trill  of  happy 
song  upon  her  rose  lips,  kicking  a  mass  of  tissue-paper 
before  her  with  the  points  of  her  pretty  bronze  shoes,  and 
dragging  an  empty  cardboard  box  after  her,  whose  metal 
clip  had  entangled  in  the  lace  of  her  petticoat  frill,  came 
the  bride-elect.  Her  gay,  pretty  eyes  encountered  those 
of  the  young  man  who  held  the  box,  and  a  wireless 


194  A  Sailor's  Home 

message  passed  between  them.  She  grew  japonica- 
scarlet;  he  became,  underneath  the  tan  of  Shorncliffe 
and  Aldershot,  almost  pale. 

His  swift  whisper  leaped  after  his  lightning  glance  of 
recognition :  "Don't  call  out,  Ermie !  I'm  here,  as  I  said 
I'd  be.  Will  your  mother  recognise  me — with  this  mous- 
tache?" 

Her  face  dimpled  into  laughter.  "Not  in  the  least — 
she  couldn't.  It's  so  red  and  spiky  and  unlike  your  tiny 
little  black  one.  What  sticks  it  on?" 

"Diachylon — or  something  else  that  gives  me  the  lock- 
jaw," he  mumbled  with  a  rigid  upper  lip.  "Look  here  1 
Are  you  going  to  be  plucky  and  fight  for  your  happiness 
and  mine,  or  go  through  with  to-morrow's — tomfoolery?" 

"Harry !    Don't  be  so — tempestuous !" 

She  gasped,  and  her  white  hands  fluttered  up  to  her 
heart.  There  was  a  magnificent  square  emerald  set  in 
brilliants  on  the  engagement  finger.  To-morrow  the 
wedding-ring  with  a  still  more  costly  keeper  would  re- 
place the  emerald,  set  in  its  stead  by  the  hand  of  a 
husband  whom  she  did  not  love,  if  she  did  not  respond 
to  this  young  man's  appeal. 

"You  have  only  to  slip  upstairs  to  your  room,  pack  a 
tiny  bag,  put  on  a  fur  motor-coat,  hat  and  veil,  and  get 
out.  Then  you  must  cross  the  park  to  the  lodge  near  the 
Charles's  oak.  A  little  way  down  the  road  there's  a 
closed  touring-car  waiting.  That's  mine,  and  the 
chauffeur  has  a  red  rose  in  his  buttonhole.  I'll  join  you 
directly  afterwards,  as  soon  as  I  get  turned  out.  I've 
been  hanging  about  the  place  for  three  days  waiting  my 
chance.  Then  I  had  the  notion  I  told  you  of  in  my  letter 
— the  notion  about  the  orchids."  He  jerked  the  box. 
"Fourteen  of  your  mother's  choice  specimens  in  this  box. 
I  paid  her  second  tropical-house  gardener  a  hundred 
jimmies  down  to  swear  the  April  frosts  had  blighted  'em. 
Thundering  scoundrel,  isn't  he? — not  that  I  have  any 


The  Young  Man  from  Mawley's         195 

right  to  complain.  Oh !  isn't  it  a  thundering  confounded 
shame  that  I'm  only  my  uncle  Broad's  nephew,  a  poor 
beggar  in  a  Hussar  regiment,  with  only  seven  hundred 
a  year  besides  my  rotten  pay  to  keep  up  a  beggarly  little 
title  with.  If  I'd  the  Duke's  strawberry-leaves  round 
my  hat  now,  I  should  have  been  able  to  knock  at  your 
father's  front  door  like  a  decent  gentleman  and  say, 
"Look  here,  sir,  I've  come  to  marry  your  daughter,  not 
her  money !"  instead  of  sneaking  in  as  I've  done.  What 
is  it?  Somebody  coming  downstairs?  All  right." 

Alarm  had  leaped  into  her  face  as  the  decent  Prynne 
came  smoothly  hurrying  downstairs,  followed  by  a 
French  maid  in  black  silk,  with  elaborately  piled-up  hair, 
who  carried  a  milliner's  box  and  a  jewel-case.  In  the 
box  were  a  coronal  of  orange  blossoms  and  a  veil  of 
marvellous,  cobwebby,  old  Malines  that  had  belonged  to 
a  murdered  Empress.  And  the  case  held  family  diamonds 
belonging  to  the  man  who  was  to  marry  Ermyntrude  to- 
morrow. 

She  knew  that  as  she  passed  into  the  drawing-room, 
the  door  of  which  the  young  man  held  respectfully  open. 
The  vista  afforded  was  of  brocade-upholstered  furniture, 
some  of  it  supporting  female  friends  and  relatives;  the 
rest  encumbered  with  wedding  presents,  yet  partly  en- 
shrouded in  tissue-paper.  Her  mother,  a  large,  stately 
woman,  with  an  overflow  of  figure  and  three  chins,  wel- 
comed back  the  sacrificial  lamb  with  an  enfolding 
embrace. 

"Dearest,  where  have  you  been  hiding?  You  have 
been  wanted  frightfully,  more  than  once." 

"I  have  only  been  in  the  hall  talking  to  the  man  who 
called  about  some  orchids." 

"From  Mawley's?  Almost  providential,  when  one 
recalls  the  tragedy  of  last  night.  Where  is  the  person? 
Tell  Prynne  to  show  him  in." 


196  A  Sailor's  Home 

"You  have  not  time  to  see  him,  surely?  Had  not 
Prynne  better  appoint  another  day?" 

"My  dearest,  the  day  is  to-morrow.  And  I  have 
fourteen  Venetian  finger-glasses  to  fill,  thanks  to  the 
wicked  frost  last  night.  You  don't  imagine  that  I  shall 
grudge  expenditure  that  is  to  make  your  wedding  a 
brilliant  success  ?" 

Ermie  was  kissed  again,  enfolded  again.  All  the 
women  present  murmured  admiration  or  cooed  approval. 
Prynne  showed  in  the  young  man  from  Mawley's, 
Orchid  Growers,  of  Blittingdon,  Sussex.  He  passed  over 
scattered  squares  of  tissue-paper  to  the  tribunal  of  her 
mother's  judgment.  The  box  was  opened,  the  damp 
cotton-wool  removed  from  fourteen  replicas  of  the  four- 
teen frost-shrivelled  orchids.  Feminine  gasps  and 
gurgles  of  delight  attended  the  exposition  of  each 
wonder. 

"And — the  cost  ?  You  would  be  content  to  make  some 
reduction  if  I  agree  to  take  all  that  are  here?  We  are 
largely  supplied  from  our  own  houses,  but — we  entertain 
to-morrow,  and  some  unexpected  need  may  arise,  some 
unforeseen  contingency  may  have  to  be  met.  You  quite 
comprehend  me?  I  feel  sure  you  do.  You  look  in- 
telligent." 

"/  hope,"  thought  the  young  tradesman,  as  he  respect- 
fully stood  beside  the  open  box  upon  the  table,  "that  the 
unforeseen  contingency  may  be  of  my  bringing  about!" 
He  looked  as  stupidly  intelligent  as  he  could,  and  said 
that  the  price  of  the  boxful  was  only  ten  pounds.  She 
took  so  long  in  beating  about  the  bush  of  her  determina- 
tion to  give  no  more  than  five  sovereigns  that  he  nearly 
yielded  to  the  desperate  inmpulse  to  offer  them  as  a  gift. 
But  he  controlled  himself,  and  bowed  over  her  ladyship's 
cheque  like  a  pattern  tradesman. 
*-  "Perhaps,"  suggested  her  ladyship,  who  secretly  re- 


The  Young  Man  from  Mawley's         197, 

joiced  over  a  wonderful  bargain,  "you  might  like  to  see 
our  orchid-houses  before  you  go." 

His  eyes  suggested  who  should  be  his  guide.  The 
bride-elect  thought  she  needed  fresh  air.  Indeed,  her 
head  ached  a  little.  She  would  pilot  the  young  man  from 
Mawley's  as  far  as  those  gorgeous  glazed  exotic  temples 
at  the  bottom  of  the  shrubbery-garden. 

"But  the  heated  air  inside !  My  darling  child  must  be 
careful!" 

Darling  child  meant  to  be.  She  would  run  and  put  on 
her  things,  and  the  young  man  would  wait  in  the  hall. 
He  opened  the  drawing-room  door  very  respectfully  for 
her,  and  she  passed  out,  so  haughty  in  her  condescension 
that  she  gave  him  quite  a  smile.  Then,  with  a  frou-frou 
of  silk  linings  and  a  twitter  of  laughter,  she  shot  up  the 
steep  oak  Jacobean  staircase,  under  the  grim  or  smirking 
faces  of  ancestors  in  wigs  and  ruffles.  He  waited  with- 
out his  box. 

Presently  she  came  down  in  a  sable  motor-coat  and 
toque,  with  a  white  silk  veil  over  head  head.  She  carried 
a  tiny  bag,  hidden  by  her  sleeve,  and  her  cheeks  were 
poppy-red.  The  young  tradesman  opened  the  hall-door. 
They  went  out  into  the  still  golden  light  of  an  April 
afternoon,  and  turned  up  the  long  path  that  led  through 
the  shrub-garden,  the  bride-elect  walking  a  little  in 
advance.  The  moment  they  were  at  a  safe  distance  from 
the  house  she  showed  him  her  bare  left  hand.  The 
emerald  ring  had  been  left,  in  an  envelope  addressed  to 
the  giver,  on  the  writing-table  in  her  boudoir. 

"Then  you  will — you  will!"  he  gasped,  overcome  by 
the  reality  of  his  triumph. 

"Goose!"  she  said,  "as  though  you  didn't  know  I 
would.  This  gate  leads  into  the  park.  I'll  run  you  to 
King  Charles's'  oak — for  what?" 

"For  a  wedding-ring !"  said  the  young  man,  pulling  off 
his  red,  spiky  moustache  and  throwing  it  into  a  bed  of 


198  A  Sailor's  Home 

scarlet  anemones,  and  capturing  the  little  travelling  bag. 

"One,  two — off!"  she  said,  and  darted  away,  he  after 
her.  But  they  passed  singly  and  with  the  utmost  decorum 
through  the  lodge  gates,  and  a  little  way  down  the  road 
they  found  the  motor-car  waiting,  whose  chauffeur  wore 
a  red  rose  in  his  buttonhole. 

"Good  for  you,  Richards !"  said  the  owner  of  the  car, 
as  he  handed  in  his  prize. 

"Yes,  m'lord,"  said  Richards,  touching  his  cap. 

"My  portmanteau  in?" 

"On  the  roof,  m'lord,"  said  Richards. 

"And  the  hamper,  and  the  tea-basket?" 

"Inside,  m'lord." 

"Drive  like  the  deuce,  man." 

"Whereto,  m'lord?" 

"Folkestone.  We'll  get  there  in  time  to  be  married  at 
a  nice  little  church  I  know  by  special  license  early  to- 
morrow morning,  and  cross  to  Calais  by  the  next  boat." 

The  chauffeur  touched  the  lever.  The  automobile  slid 
noiselessly  away  down  the  long  white  road.  She  cried 
because  she  had  left  her  Pom  behind,  and  mother,  and 
everybody,  but  not  as  she  would  have  cried  if  she  had 
had  to  go  back. 


X 

"BLEACH" 

UT  T  7"E  could,  'aving  got  the  mare  safe  in  our  hands," 

VV  said  the  nondescript  personage  in  the  tight-knee 'd 
riding  breeches,  contrasting  oddly  with  his  serge  reefer 
coat,  his  checked  leather-peaked  motor-cap,  Scotch 
heather-mixture  rig-and-fur  stockings  and  lace-up  boots, 
"we  could  enter  'er  for  one  or  two  of  the  minor  May 
events,  say  Folkestone  and  Salisbury,  but  for  her  being 
so  blooming  dashed  well  known." 

"It's  'er  colour,  dark  chestnit,  with  a  white  blaze  on 
her  face  and  the  off- fetlock  white  too,  as  stands  in  the 
way  o'  a  pair  o'  needy  pals  turnin'  the  honest  copper," 
said  the  nondescript  personage's  companion,  turning  a 
sprig  of  greening  broom  between  his  chapped  lips  as  he 
lolled  back  in  the  third-class  smoker  that  contained  him- 
self, his  friend,  and  a  thin  hectic  young  man  in  respect- 
able Sunday  black,  with  the  ostentatiously  curly  and 
glossy  hair  that  is  seldom  seen  save  on  the  head  of  a 
hairdresser.  He  smelt  of  bergamot  and  shampoo-soap, 
and  was  reading  the  weekly  issue  of  a  newspaper  devoted 
to  the  interests  of  the  Trade.  In  the  rack  over  his  head 
were  a  shiny  bowler,  with  a  new  crape  band,  and  a 
shinier  bag  of  American  cloth.  And  the  rat-tail  of  a 
dressing-comb  stuck  out  of  his  breast-pocket. 

"Fen  narks,"  said  the  first  speakers,  treading  on  the 
toe  of  the  man  who  had  replied. 

The  Doncaster  and  Liverpool  Street  Sunday  afternoon 
199 


2oo  A  Sailor's  Home 


train  joggled  over  the  sleepers  languidly,  paused  at  a 
small  and  insignificant  station  to  disgorge  two  stout 
farmers  and  take  in  one  cotton-gloved,  red-cheeked 
servant  girl,  then  with  a  jerk  and  a  rattle  sped  again 
over  the  iron  way.  And  the  young  hairdresser,  who  was 
of  a  sensitive  disposition,  realised  that  his  fellow- 
passengers  were  staring  at  him  resentfully. 

"Excoose  me,  sir,"  at  length  said  the  owner  of  the  toe 
that  had  been  trodden  upon,  chewing  his  piece  of  broom 
and  breathing  wheezily  over  the  turned-up  collar  of  a 
weather-beaten  covert  coat  which  had  been  made  for  a 
much  bigger  wearer,  "but  per'aps  you  over'eard  wot  I 
was  a-saying  just  now  to  my  mate  'ere  in  joke?" 

"About  the  chestnut  horse — the  chestnut  mare,  with 
the  white  blaze  on  her  face  and  the  white  fetlock,  what- 
ever part  of  the  beast  that  means,  for  I'm  sure  I  couldn't 
tell  you?"  said  the  curly-headed  young  man  with  the 
comb  sticking  out  of  his  breast-pocket,  looking  over  the 
top  of  The  Coiffeurs'  Chronicle  and  Barbers'  Weekly; 
"whose  colour  is  too  remarkable  for  the  thieves  that  stole 
her  to  profit  by  their  felony?  Certainly,  I  did  overhear." 

The  candid  utterance  induced  an  apoplectic  alteration 
in  the  complexions  of  his  fellow-passengers.  As  the 
pace  of  the  locomotive  quickened  to  a  rapid  wobble  in- 
stead of  a  slow  joggle,  the  nondescript  gentleman  in  the 
reefer  significantly  let  down  his  window,  opened  the 
carriage  door,  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat  and  removed  his 
belt,  a  stout  leather  affair  with  a  brass  buckle.  His  com- 
panion in  the  covert  coat  slipped  one  large  hand  into  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  garment  and  withdrew  it,  wearing  an 
iron  ornament  of  the  kind  known  as  a  knuckle-duster. 

"There  ain't  a  stop  now  for  quite  a  while,  is  there, 
Cuffey?"  the  nondescript  gentleman  asked,  with  an  un- 
pleasant smile. 

"Not  for  a  while,  Briggins,  there  ain't,"  responded 
Cuffey  -t  balancing  the  knuckle-duster. 


"Bleach"  201 

"Then,  my  curly-'eaded  young  friend,"  said  Briggins, 
with  simple  directness,  "me  and  my  mate  are  under  the 
obligation  of  asking  you  to  step  out  of  'ere." 

"And  if  you  don't  step  out,"  said  Cuffey,  revealing  a 
(quantity  of  uncared-for  teeth  in  a  grin  that  was  even 
more  unpleasant  than  the  business  smile  of  Briggins,  "me 
and  the  other  gent  'ere  will  be  under  the  pyneful  necessity 
of  chuckin'  you." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  curly-haired  tonsorial  artist, 
looking  rather  pale,  but  speaking  with  great  coolness, 
"that  both  of  you  chaps  are  making  a  lot  of  fuss  about 
a  very  small  matter.  What  is  it  to  me  if  you  stole  the 
mare  or  a  complete  coaching-four  of  animals  of  the  same 
description?  I'd  steal  myself,  just  now — at  least  I  think 
so — if  I  knew  of  anything  to  steal." 

"Ho!  you  would,  would  you?"  said  Mr.  Briggins 
judicially. 

"  'E  only  thinks  'e  would,"  said  Cuffey  malignantly. 
"  'Ere !  This  carriage  is  uncommon  cold  with  the  door 
hangin'  open."  He  addressed  the  young  hairdresser. 
"Are  you  a-goin'  to  step  out  of  'ere  or  ain't  you?  That's 
the  question." 

"Because  our  time's  too  precious  to  waste,"  observed 
Mr.  Briggins.  And  with  his  friend  he  truculently  ad- 
vanced upon  the  intended  victim. 

"Don't  fuss,  you  have  plenty  of  time  before  you,"  said 
the  hairdresser,  putting  up  his  hand.  "Why  should  you 
grudge  me  an  extra  minute?  Besides,  it  will  be  to  your 
advantage.  I've  rather  a  valuable  trade  secret  I  should 
wish  to  place  at  your  disposal  in  return  for  all  the  trouble 
you're  going  to,  to  save  a  poor  bankrupt  beggar  of  a  hair- 
dresser who  put  his  all  in  buying  a  rotten  business,  and 
who  had  fair  made  up  his  mind  to  commit  suicide  on  this 
very  journey,  out  of  this  very  train." 

"Strewth,  and  so  that's  why  you  took  us  all  a-smiling," 
said  Mr.  Cuffey,  with  reluctant  conviction. 


2O2  A  Sailor's  Home 

"No\r  I  look  at  you,  you  'ave  a  kind  of  'unted  desprit 
look,"  added  Mr.  Briggins,  perusing  the  hairdresser's 
features  with  interest. 

"Suicide's  a  crime,  and  you're  going  to  save  me  from 
committing  it,"  said  the  hairdresser  briskly;  "that's  why 
I  am  going  to  help  you  two  out  of  your  little  trouble  with 
the  stolen  mare." 

"Her  colour's  our  trouble,"  said  Mr.  Briggins  gruffly, 
"and  though  we  could  dye  her  black  with  walnut  juice 
whisker-and-moustache  stain,  the  stuff  runs  to  a  bob  for 
a  small  bottle,  and  we  want  all  the  money  we've  got,  to 
put,  not  on  a  'orse's  'ide,  but  on  a  'orse's  'eels." 

"But  suppose  instead  of  dyeing  the  beast  you  were  to 
bleach  her?"  suggested  the  hairdresser. 

"Bleach  'er  like  how  your  young  woman  does  'er  'air, 
'e  means,"  interpolated  Mr.  Cuffey,  nodding  at  his 
friend. 

"She  says  she  don't  do  nothing  to  bleach  her  'air," 
declared  the  chivalrous  Briggins.  "She  says  the  strong 
sunshine  at  Margit  that  time  I  took  her  on  a  five-shillin' 
excursion  there  and  back  made  it  go  that  yeller  mustard 
colour  from  dark  brown." 

"She  is  quite  right  about  the  effect  of  the  sunshine," 
said  the  would-be  suicide  cheerfully,  "but  the  bleach — 
peroxide  of  hydrogen  is  the  stuff — has  to  be  put  on  first, 
and  it's  very  expensive,  the  kind  usually  employed.  But 
the  confounded  swindler  who  sold  me  my  little  business 
in  Ealing — at  Netting  Hill,  I  mean — had  discovered  a 
cheap  medium,  and  there's  an  eight-gallon  cask  of  it  now 
in  the  little  room  back  of  my  shampooing-saloon.  That 
cask  I  am  going  to  bequeath  to  you  two  gentlemen,  in 
return  for  your  obliging  services.  No;  don't  shut  the 
carriage-door.  You  promised  to  pitch  me  out,  and  I'm 
going  to  hold  you  to  your  bargain.  First,  though,  I  shall 
take  off  my  boots,  in  case  I  change  my  mind  at  the  last 
minute  and  kick  so  as  to  hurt  you." 


"Bleach"  203 

The  young  hairdresser  put  up  his  foot  on  the  carriage- 
seat  and  began  to  tug  at  a  boot-lace. 

"  'Old  'ard  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Cuffey,  who  had  been 
thinking  noisily.  "You  'aven't  tipped  us  the  address  o' 
that  little  crib  o'  yours  in  Nottin*  '111." 

"Areca  Crescent,  Number  Thirty-eight,"  said  the  hair- 
dresser, fighting  with  a  knot.  "And  the  name  over  the 
shop  is  'Rickarby,  late  Milching.'  I'm  Rickarby,  and  I 
shall  be  late  in  a  minute,  I  hope.  Come,  are  you  chaps 
ready?" 

"Don't  rush  us,"  said  Mr.  Briggins.  "Spare  'arf  a  mo' 
to  tell  us  'ow  we're  to  get  that  barrel  o'  bleachin'  flooid, 
an*  'ow  we're  to  use  it — when  we  get  it.  Don't  leave 
two  feller-men  in  difficulties  what  'ave  befriended 
you." 

"Call  for  the  barrel  with  a  truck,  and  say  I  sold  it  to 
you  before  I  died,"  said  the  impatient  hairdresser.  "As 
to  the  mare,  sponge  her  all  over  carefully  with  the 
medium,  and  let  her  dry  in  the  sunshine — unless  you 
bungle  the  job  she'll  turn  golden." 

"And  so  will  our  luck,"  said  Cuffey,  joyfully  spitting 
his  piece  of  broom  out  at  the  carriage-window — "least- 
ways, if  we  don't  bungle  the  job,  as  you  say,"  he  added, 
"through  not  bein'  proper  'airdressers." 

"You  ought  to  be  able  to  manage  by  yourselves,"  said 
the  impatient  hairdresser;  "but  it's  a  thousand  chances 
to  one  your  lack  of  experience  will  ruin  the  appearance 
of  the  customer — I  mean  the  animal.  It  isn't  every  hair- 
dresser who's  a  good  bleaching-artist,  let  me  tell  you  that. 
Why,  it  took  me  five  years  to  attain  my  present  pitch  of 
proficiency." 

"And  now  you're  a-going  to  spoil  yourself  by  being 
thrown  or  jumpin'  out  of  a  railway-carriage  when  going 
at  express  speed,"  said  Mr.  Briggins,  who  had,  despite 
the  entreaties  of  the  hairdresser,  shut  the  carriage-door. 
"No,  young  feller.  You  'ang  on  and  live  long  enough 


2O4  A  Sailor's  Home 

to  git  back  to  London  and  bleach  the  mare  for  us ;  she's 
Colonel  de  Crosier's  'Bloodstone' — (I  thought  you'd  jump 
at  that!) — what  mysteriously  disappeared  out  of  'er 
special  van-'orsebox  betwixt  Lewes  and  Bath,  a  regular 
crock  of  her  colour,  with  a  white-painted  face  and  fetlock 
bein'  substitooted  in  'er  place — her  being  entered  to  run 
for  the  Somersetshire  Stakes  and  ca'rryin'  a  pot  o' 
money." 

"An*  she's  now  in  a  little  stable  behind  a  friend's 
public-'ouse  at  Churton,"  said  Mr.  Cuffey  bitterly,  "eatin* 
her  heard  orf  to  the  tune  of  seven  an'  sixpence  a  day,  and 
bringin'  two  honest  investors  to  misery  and  starvation, 
because  of  her  colour  making  'er  so  remarkable,  an'  her 
description  being  known.  But  bleached  to  a  nice  light 
canary  colour,  like  Briggins'  young  woman's  hair,  she'll 
be  a  bit  of  fair  all-right,  and  so  will  you." 

"The  train's  stopping,"  said  the  hairdresser  gloomily, 
"and  but  for  you  it  might  have  been  all  comfortably  over 
with  me  now.  Well,  I'll  live  just  long  enough  to  oblige 
you  two " 

"And  afterwards  you  shall  make  away  with  yourself," 
said  Mr.  Briggins,  flushed  with  generosity,  "in  any  way 
you  please.  There!  Don't  say  we're  not  acting  fair  by 
you." 

"I  won't,"  said  the  curly-haired  young  man,  as  he 
crowned  himself  with  his  crape-adorned  bowler,  reached 
down  his  black  shiny  bag,  "and  now " 

The  train  stopped. 

"And  now  good-bye,"  said  the  curly-haired  young  man, 
stepping  nimbly  to  the  door,  opening  it,  and  getting 
quickly  out.  "This  is  my  station.  Here !  Guard !  Porter 
there !"  he  shouted,  "call  a  constable !  I  give  these  two 
men  in  charge  for  being  concerned  in  the  theft  of  the 
mare  'Bloodstone/  the  property  of  Colonel  de  Crosier, 
and  also  for  having  threatened  to  murder  me.  If  I 
hadn't  bluffed  the  scoundrels  with  a  pretence  of  being 


"Bleach"  205, 

on  the  point  myself  of  committing  suicide,  they'd  have 
thrown  me  out  of  the  train,  I  believe." 

"We  would,"  said  Mr.  Briggins  malignantly,  "and  I 
wish  we  'ad  'ave  done  it." 

"It  ain't  a  fair  cop,  what  I  call,"  snarled  the  indignant 
Cuffey.  "It's  a  low,  mean,  dishonest  take-in." 

"You'd  better  be  careful  what  you  say,"  said  one  of 
two  large  constables.  "I  warn  you  everything'll  be  took 
down  and  used  against  you." 

"I  told  you  the  truth  when  I  said  I  was  on  the  verge 
of  bankruptcy,"  said  the  smiling  hairdresser,  when  he  had 
supplied  an  inspector  with  his  genuine  address.  "So  I 
am,  but  I  shan't  be  there  long,  thanks  to  you.  There's 
a  reward  of  three  hundred  pounds  offered  for  the 
recovery  of  'Bloodstone,'  this  gentleman  tells  me,  and  I 
rather  fancy  it'll  come  my  way." 

He  winked  upon  Messrs.  Briggins,  and  Cuffey 
pleasantly. 

"Ta-ta,"  he  said,  "much  obliged.     Good-day!" 


XI 

BONES! 

ONE  week-end  house-party  had  motored  away,  the 
men  masked  like  conspirators,  the  women  veiled 
like  house-maids'  brooms  enveloped  in  cobwebs.     The 
next  batch  was  not  due  until  Saturday.    One,  two,  three, 
four  days  of  tete  a  tete  loneliness  for  Her  and  for  Him. 

He  had,  with  the  inane  persistency  of  the  speeding 
host,  remained  upon  the  doorstep  even  after  the  tuff-tuff 
of  the  last  motor  had  grown  thin  upon  the  ear.  She  had 
retreated  into  the  Jacobean  carved-oak  hall,  on  the 
strength  of  which  they  had  paid  eighteen  thousand — a 
bargain,  the  sleek  Haymarket  agent  said,  omitting  to 
mention  whose — for  this  desirable  country  residence. 
The  newly  varnished,  recently  acquired  ancestors  upon 
the  walls  looked  at  her  with  such  glittering  contempt  that 
she  lowered  her  eyes.  And  then  she  saw  a  curious- 
looking,  narrow,  long  box  upon  the  marble  console — or 
what  looked  like  a  long  box,  enveloped  in  brown  paper 
and  string. 

"It  must  have  come  by  parcel  post  just  now,"  she  said, 
pouncing  on  it  eagerly.  "How  frightfully  punctual  of 
Taillette  et  Cie!  Just  when  I  wanted  something  to  do, 
too."  She  rang  the  hall  bell  twice,  which  meant  the 
Swiss  maid  upstairs,  and  began  to  strip  off  the  tightly 
tied  string.  Then  a  large  masculine  hand  reached  over 
her  shoulder  and  grabbed  the  parcel. 

"Look  here,  that's  mine,  you  know!" 

"Rubbish!    It's  for  me." 

206 


Bones !  207 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  He  said,  with  some  acerbity ;  "if 
you  will  look  at  the  address  you  will  see  my  name." 

"I  don't  want  to  look  at  the  address." 

"You've  torn  it  off,"  he  said  angrily. 

The  address  being  on  a  label  gummed  over  the  knot  of 
the  string,  she  had,  in  fact,  torn  it  off  and  tossed  it  into 
the  fire,  which  had  been  lighted  because  Jacobean  halls 
have  a  trick  of  smelling  mouldy  even  on  a  rainy  day  in 
September,  and  of  feeling  damp.  Now  He  went  down 
on  his  hands  and  knees,  grovelling  under  the  console 
table  in  a  curiously  ardent  search  for  it. 

"Do  get  up,"  she  snapped;  "you  look  so  awfully 
apoplectic  about  the  neck  and  ears,  and  I  can  hear  you 
puffing." 

He  obeyed  with  unusual  celerity.  "I'm  afraid  I  ant 
getting  a  little  bit  crummy,"  He  said,  surveying  the 
generous  curve  described  by  his  watch-chain  across  a 
waistcoat  of  fatally  large-patterned  tweed. 

"Afraid!"  She  echoed,  with  a  high  little  hysterical 
laugh  that  He  had  learned,  within  two  years  of  wedded 
happiness,  to  regard  as  the  weatherwise  regard  the  inky 
cloud-castles  bannered  with  streamers  of  coppery  vapour 
that  presage  the  bursting  of  a  thunderstorm. 

"Look  here,  my  dear,"  He  said,  with  meekness,  "are 
you  absolutely  certain  that  parcel  was  meant  for  you?" 

"Were  you  expecting  one,"  She  asked,  with  icy  disdain, 
"of  this  shape  and  size?" 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  be."  He  was  fiery  sunset 
red  and  breathed  through  the  nose,  always  a  sign  with 
him  of  impending  inflammation  of  the  temper. 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  She  asked,  facing  him,  the  disputed 
parcel  tucked  under  one  arm,  the  outraged  feelings  of  a 
wife  palpitating  visibly  under  the  discreet  indiscretions 
of  her  open-worked  cambric  blouse,  and  one  little  buckled 
patent-leather  shoe  tapping  the  shiny  bottom  step  of  the 
Jacobean  staircase — "will  you  tell  me  what  you  think — 


208  A  Sailor's  Home 

what  you  believe — to  be  inside  this  ?"  She  rapped  lightly 
on  the  parcel  with  the  hand  that  wore  his  wedding  ring 
and  the  keeper  that  had  cost  him  such  a  thundering  lump. 
Our  civilised  women  are  no  better  judges  of  jewels  than 
their  savage  sisters,  thought  He.  Anything  that  is  big 
enough  and  sufficiently  shining  does  for  all,  and  they 
sport  a  five-hundred  guinea  string  of  pearls  with  a  rope 
of  blue-glass  Venice  beads,  and  diamond  bracelets  with 
Indian  glass  bangles,  the  sort  of  thing  the  ayahs  and  low- 
caste  women  wear  at  Lahore.  And  these  are  the  creatures 
that  prate  of  sex  equality  and  clamour  for  franchise! 
thought  He. 

"No,  I'm  dashed  if  I  do !"  He  thundered  suddenly. 

She  cast  a  glance  of  scorn  upon  him,  turned,  and  swept 
upstairs  to  her  boudoir.  She  heard  the  door  of  the  smok- 
ing-room bang,  disturbing  swarms  of  Jacobean  echoes, 
as  she  cut  the  string  of  the  parcel,  neatly  removed  the 
brown  paper,  dropped  it  into  the  wastepaper  basket,  and 
opened  the  long  box.  Then  she  uttered  a  cry  of  triumph 
and  dashed  into  her  bedroom,  calling  Marie  Louise. 

"Undress  me  quick ;  don't  lose  a  minute.  Taillette  has 
kept  her  word,  and  I'm  dying  to  try  them  on.  Dites-moi 
done,  Marie  Louise,  do  you  think  the  new-shaped  figure 
will  suit  my  style?  Candidly,  now,  speaking  as  though 
you  were  at  confession." 

"It  is  trying,  without  doubt,  to  those  ladies  who  are 
not  tall.  But  Madame  has  such  grace  to  carry  it  off." 
Marie  Louise  was,  of  course,  speaking  as  if  she  were  at 
confession.  "Madame  will  look  ravishing.  Alas!  my 
Heaven,  what  is  this  ?" 

Marie  Louise  was  quite  pale  as  they  unrolled  wider 
and  wider  in  her  trembling  hands. 

"Made  of  webbing,  no  embroidery,  and  with  such  huge 
wide  bones!"  gasped  her  mistress.  "And  thirty-five 
inches — forty,  if  one.  What  can  have  possessed  Taillette? 
Put  them  back  in  the  box  at  once,  Marie  Louise.  Take 


Bones !  209 

them  away  to  your  room,  tie  them  up  in  the  paper,  and 
send  them  back  to  Wigmore  Street  by  the  next  parcel- 
post.  I'll  write  a  letter  and  say  there  has  been  some 
hideous  mistake.  No,  don't  dress  me  again.  I'll  put  on 
a  kimono  and  go  to  bed  till  dinner-time.  Does  it  rain 
still?" 

"Des  hallebardes,  Madame." 

"You  may  go.  Take  those  awful  things  with  you,  and 
bring  me  tea  at  half-past  five." 

"Madame  has  already  had  the  af ternuti !" 

"I'll  have  it  again,  then." 

Marie  Louise  shut  the  bedroom  door  noiselessly,  and 
skipped  across  the  boudoir,  hugging  in  her  neat  black  silk 
apron  the  long  box  and  its  extraordinary  contents.  She 
made  a  grimace  of  triumph  at  her  own  rather  plain  face 
in  the  mantel-mirror,  and  slid  downstairs  instead  of  up, 
with  the  air  of  a  feminine  Mephistopheles.  She  was  not 
a  bad  sort  of  young  woman,  but  chance  had  delivered  a 
man  into  her  hands,  and  he  was  going  to  bleed  for  it. 
She  knocked  softly  at  the  smoking-room  door. 

"Come  in,"  He  bellowed.  He  was  lying  on  his  back 
on  a  big  leather  divan,  smoking  a  cigar  and  studying  the 
pictorial  advertisements  in  a  ladies'  weekly  illustrated 
paper. 

"Monsieur  permits?" 

"Certainly."  He  dropped  the  paper  adroitly  between 
the  divan  and  the  wall,  and  sat  up  with  rumpled  hair  and 
a  heightened  complexion,  which  deepened  to  tomato  when 
he  saw  the  apron's  contents.  "A  message  from  Ma- 
dame?" 

"It  is  but  of  the  box.  The  box  contained  nothing  that 
was  intended  for  Miladi.  I  come  but  to  bring  Mon- 
sieur  " 

He  blurted  out:  "Take  the  things  away.  You  don't 
suppose  I'd  order  or  wear  such  things,  do  you?  Send 
'em  to  the  devil.  Pack  'em  back.  Put  'em  in  the  fire. 
Why  bring  'em  to  me?" 


2io  A  Sailor's  Home 

She  tittered  inwardly,  for  she  had  not  unrolled  her 
apron  or  opened  the  compromising  box.  Now  she  began 
to  weep;  the  black  silk  apron  went  to  her  eyes,  the  box 
tumbled  down  upon  the  Daghestani  carpet,  and  the  con- 
tents of  course,  rolled  out. 

"I  beg  Monsieur  to  pardon  me.  I  entreat  Monsieur  not 
to  be  offended.  Miladi — Madame — does  not  know  that  I 
brought  the  box  to  Monsieur.  She  commanded  me  to 
settd  it  back  to  the  corse  tier e  in  Vigmore  Street,  and  I 
cannot  write  the  English  address.  Ah,  heaven!  and 
Monsieur  is  angry !" 

Monsieur  said  with  an  uncertain  voice,  looking  at  the 
contents  of  the  long  box  with  a  mingled  expression  of 
guilt,  fear,  and  greed :  "You're  wrong,  my  good  girl.  I'm 
not  in  the  least  angry.  Leave  the  box  with  me.  I'll 
pack  it  up  and  direct  it  properly."  He  added,  slipping 
a  sovereign  into  the  unconsciously  ready  hand  of  Marie 
Louise,  "And — you  needn't  mention  anything  about  it." 

"But  if  Madame  should  ask?" 

Another  sovereign  went  to  keep  the  first  one  vrarm. 
And  those  things  in  the  long  box  had  cost  him  four 
pounds  ten,  and  he  didn't  know  whether  he  would  ever 
be  able — able  to 

"If  Madame  should  ask,  say  that  the " 

"The  corsets,  Monsieur!" 

"The — a — humphs!" — He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
utter  the  word — "have  arrived  at  their  proper  destina- 
tion." 

"But  certainly,  Monsieur." 

Marie  Louise  vanished.  He  rang  the  smoking-room 
bell  three  times  impatiently — that  meant  master's  man 
upstairs,  and  look  sharp  about  it — and  went  to  try  them 
on.  He  ate  less  dinner  than  usual  that  night,  and  sighed 
frequently.  But  even  to  the  wifely  eye,  which  is  not 
always  the  most  flattering  medium  in  which  a  man  may 
be  reflected,  he  looked  less  "crummy." 


XII 
THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  HIMSELF 

AN  ASTRAL  EXPERIENCE 


<(^T^HE  Great  Day,"  said  Johnson- Williams,  one  day 
A  in  the  Middle  Victorian  Era,  "will  dawn  at  last." 

"The  great  day?"  I  interrogated. 

"The  glorious  Day,"  replied  Johnson-Williams,  looking 
through  the  rails  of  the  mahogany  partition  which  divided 
his  desk  from  mine,  like  a  caged  enthusiast,  "when  every 
person  of  intellect  and  understanding  residing  in  these 
realms  will  be  found  to  own  himself  or  herself  a  member 
of  the  Theosophical  Society ;  when  Motive  Power  will  be 
replaced  by  Psychic  Force,  and  the  principles  of  Mahat- 
maism  will  be  instilled  into  the  unfolding  mind  of  the 
smiling  infant  as  it  lies  across  the — in  short — the  ma- 
ternal knee;  when  the  Visible  world  will  give  place  to 
the  Unseen,  and  the  Practicability  of  a  project  be  de- 
termined by  its  Impossibility." 

"This,"  I  hazarded,  trying  to  look  wise,  "would  alter 
the  universe  materially." 

Johnson-Williams  nodded. 

"Alter  it  for  the  better?"  I  went  on,  "or  for  the 
worse  ?" 

"For  the  worse  ?"  echoed  Johnson-Williams.  "Oh,  of 
course!  Yes,  for  the  worse!"  He  uttered  these  words 

211 


212  A  Sailor's  Home 


with  such  sneering  intensity  that  I  gathered  at  once  that 
I  had  made  a  mistake.  I  would  have  spoken,  but  he 
plucked  his  pen  from  behind  his  ear  and  hurled  himself 
upon  the  big  ledger  as  though  it  had  been  his  bitterest 
foe.  I  fell  to  work  upon  a  pile  of  insurance  policies. 
The  clock  struck  three.  The  door  of  the  inner  office  was 
torn  violently  open,  and  the  junior  clerks  shuddered  in 
their  boots  as  the  portly  form  of  the  Head  of  the  Firm 
rolled  down  the  central  aisle  of  desks  and  vanished.  An 
interval  elapsed.  Young  Simpson  came  out  of  his  little 
business  hutch  carrying  a  gorgeous  crocodile-leather 
travelling-bag.  "Saturday  to  Monday — Brighton,"  seemed 
written  upon  it  and  on  him  in  large  capitals.  He  paused 
at  the  door,  listening  until  his  parent's  footsteps  ceased 
to  echo  on  the  stairs.  Then,  bestowing  upon  us  collec- 
tively what,  had  he  not  recently  attained  to  the  dignity 
of  junior  partner,  would  have  been  a  wink,  he  went  away 
whistling.  Our  working  partner  followed;  one  by  one 
the  junior  clerks  dropped  away.  Cornhill  was  quieter  than 
usual,  it  being  Saturday  afternoon. 

"For  the  worse?"  quoted  Johnson-Williams  derisively, 
looking  at  me  through  the  railings  again.  "Ha,  ha !  Look 
here.  You're  fond  of  change,  ain't  you?" 

"Change!" 

"Excitement?     Novelty?     Foreign  travel?" 

I  had  spent  a  week  at  Dieppe  two  years  previously.  I 
spoke  of  this  experience,  and  admitted  that  it  had  been 
an  enjoyable  one. 

"Dieppe,"  repeated  Johnson-Williams  scornfully. 

"It  is  rather  far  off,"  I  agreed. 

"Far  off!"  repeated  Johnson-Williams — I  wished  he 
would  not  repeat!  "Suppose  that  it  were  possible  for 
you  to  go  anywhere  you  liked  in  an  instant,  without 
asking  for  a  holiday  or  buying  a  ticket?  Suppose  that 
it  were  possible  for  you  to  traverse  continents  and  cross 
seas — to  annihilate  Time  and  swallow  up  Space — merely 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  213 

by  the  exercise  of  your  own  volition?  Suppose  you  not 
only  found  it  feasible,  but  easy,  to  visit  a  friend  in  China 
at  eleven  a.m.  and  to  be  sitting  down  to  lunch  in  New 
York  at  one-thirty,  calling  in  at  Vladivostok,  or  taking 
Alexandria  on  the  way  home  to  dinner,  would  that  be 
the  worse  for  you  or  the  better  ?" 

"It  would  be  most  enjoyable,"  I  admitted,  "but  at  the 
same  time  a  little  exhausting.  No  human  constitution 
could  possibly  stand  the  wear  and  tear." 

"If  you  happened  to  be  a  Theosophical  Adept,  you 
would  leave  your  constitution  behind  you,"  said  Johnson- 
Williams.  "Your  body  would  remain  at  home,  or  per- 
haps seated  at  the  office  desk,  in  a  posture  of  reflection, 
while  your  soul  was  really  taking  a  holiday.  Take  the 
case  of  an  experienced  Mahatma  incarcerated  in  a  prison 
for  debt!  His  corporeal  frame  would  remain  in  the 
custody  of  the  law,  it  is  true,  but  all  the  time  his  airy 
double  might  be  roaming  about  in  perfect  liberty  and 
running  up  fresh  bills  elsewhere.  The  subject  is  an  im- 
mense one,  my  dear  Pegley.  There  is  absolutely  NO  limit 
to  its  possibilities!" 

Beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  Johnson-Williams's 
brow,  and  he  wiped  them  away  with  a  shaking  hand.  It 
was  plain  that  he  was  intensely  interested  in  his  subject. 

"And  can  you — have  you  really  accomplished  all  this  ?" 
I  asked  eagerly. 

His  countenance  gloomed  over  as  he  replied,  "Not 
exactly ;  not  yet — that  is — -you  see,  I  have  not  long  been 
a  member  of  the  Society,  and  it  requires  a  considerable 
amount  of  knowledge  and  plenty  of  practice  to  attain  to 
the — the  Pitch  I  have  mentioned.  One  must  have  time, 
and  my  time  is  limited.  Last  Saturday  afternoon  I  had 
really  succeeded  in  concentrating  my  faculties  to  an 
astonishing  extent.  I  felt  that  in  another  moment  some- 
thing extraordinary  might  be  expected  to  happen;  but 
my  landlady  looked  in  to  ascertain  whether  I  would  take 


214  A  Sailor's  Home 


a  rasher  with  my  tea  or  a  lightly-boiled  egg,  and  the  op- 
portunity was  lost.  I  do  not  know  when  it  may  occur 
again.  But  I  shall  have  two  and  a  half  days'  holiday  at 
Easter."  His  countenance  brightened.  He  nodded  at  me 
again,  saying,  "Then  we  shall  see!" 

"Have  any  of  the  members  of  your  particular  branch 
of  the  Society  succeeded  in  attaining  to  the  necessary 
Pitch?"  I  inquired. 

"N-no,"  hesitated  Johnson-Williams.  "The  fact 
really  is,  the  young  people  are  for  the  most  part  actively 
engaged  in  business,  like  myself.  But  we  receive  most 
encouraging  communications  from  older  branches  from 
time  to  time,  and  we  have  great  hopes  of  one  of  our 
number.  If  any  one  of  us  attains  to  the  Pitch,  that  one 
will  be  Chorley.  Chorley  is  becoming  quite  an  Adept. 
He  is  employed  as  foreman  by  a  well-known  distillery 
company ;  and  the  extensive  liquor  vaults  belonging  to  the 
establishment  afford  him  opportunities  for  seclusion  and 
contemplation  and  self -concentration  of  a  very  superior 
kind.  I  really  wish  you  would  attend  one  of  the  meet- 
ing of  our  society  and  hear  Chorley  relate  his  experi- 
ences." 

"They  are " 

"Wonderful!"  said  Johnson- Williams,  getting  off  his 
stool.  "I  am  going  home  now  to  my  lodgings,  and  if  the 
theatrical  young  lady  upstairs  does  not  particularly  want 
to  practise  her  step-dancing,  and  my  landlady  should 
happen  to  have  taken  the  childen  out  for  the  day,  I 
should  regard  it  as  quite  providential,  I  assure  you." 

I  asked  him  to  come  and  lunch  with  me  first. 

"Exceedingly  hospitable  of  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Johnson- Williams  gratefully;  "but  I  am  at  present  sub- 
sisting on  a  regimen  which  is  more  in  accordance  with 
the  peculiar  Aims  I  entertain  than  chops.  Frugal  but 
nourishing.  Wholemeal  porridge,  enlivened  with  raw 
apples,  and  an  occasional  charcoal  biscuit,  with  cold  water 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  215 

to  wash  it  down.  The  gurgling  tap  of  the  modern 
Theosophist  is  identical  with  the  purling  rill  of  thd 
ancient  Pythagorean,  if  not  so  nice.  And  I  am  careful 
about  having  the  liquid  boiled  and  filtered,  so  that  no 
peril  of  any  kind  may  be  associated  with  the  experiment, 
as  the  chemical  demonstrators  say,  when  they  are  not 
under  immediate  apprehension  of  a  blow-up!" 

I  admired  his  self-denial  and  perseverance,  and  said 
so. 

"Oh!  as  to  that,"  replied  Johnson- Williams,  "when  a 
man  has  a  particular  end  in  view,  he  doesn't  mind  a 
little  hardship,  more  or  less." 

"And  your  end  is  the  advancement  of  Science?"  I 
hazarded. 

"Perhaps,  yes,"  said  Johnson-Williams,  taking  off  his 
hat,  which  he  had  just  put  on,  and  passing  his  long 
fingers  through  his  hair,  which  was  of  a  sandy  colour 
and  an  upright  growth.  "But  were  I  to  deny  that  my 
chief  motive  is  a  personal  one,  I  should  be  wilfully  de- 
ceiving you." 

I  looked  at  him  interrogatively.  His  pale  features 
worked  with  efmotion;  he  laid  his  hand — a  long  thin 
hand — upon  my  arm. 

"I  am  about  to  repose  a  great  confidence  in  you,  my 
dear  Pegley,"  he  said,  blushing. 

I  wondered  what  the  confidence  was  going  to  be. 

ii 

Johnson-Williams  came  round  to  my  side  of  the  desk 
and  sat  upon  the  stool,  immediately  facing  me. 

"The  desire  to  travel,"  I  hinted,  "was  your  leading 
motive?" 

"Hardly  that,"  said  Johnson-Williams.  "I  am  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact fellow,  and  this  quarter  of  the  globe  is  good 
enough  for  me.  If  I  want  to  know  anything  about  for- 


216  A  Sailor's  Home 

eign  countries  I  can  get  'em  up  in  Maunder's,  and  add 
the  details  of  costume  and  local  colouring  out  of  the 
'Illustrated  Geographical  Encyclopaedia.'  But  the  enor- 
mous facilities  for  inexpensive  and  instant  communica- 
tion with  relatives  or — or — friends  residing  at  a  dis- 
tance, which  the  attainment  of  Adeptship  would  place  at 
my  disposal,  constitute,  I  must  confess,  the  special  at- 
tractions of  the  Theosophic  Cult,  from  my  limited  point 
of  view.  You  may  not  be  aware  of  it,  but  I  am  en- 
gaged." 

I  had  not  been  aware  of  it,  and  I  hastened  to  con- 
gratulate him. 

"She  is  a  young  lady  of  great  personal  attractions," 
said  Johnson- Williams,  blinking  at  me  from  behind  his 
glasses,  "and,  like  myself,  poor — poor.  She  occupies,  in 
fact,  the  position  of  daily  governess  in  the  family  of  a 
well-to-do  coal  proprietor,  residing  at  Merthyr  Tydvil. 
We  are  both  Welsh  by  birth,  and  in  marrying  me  she 
will  not  be  compelled  to  make  any  radical  alterations 
in  her  surname,  as  far  as  marking  is  concerned;  for 
her  name  is  Williams-Johnson — Miss  Williams-Johnson. 
'Johnson'  will  have  to  be  picked  out,  or  cut  out,  of 
course,  and  put  before  the  'Williams' ;  but  the  saving  in 
time,  trouble  and  marking-cotton  will,  as  she  herself 
says,  be  considerable.  She  is  a  delightful  girl.  I  have 
not  seen  her,"  said  Johnson-Williams  thoughtfully, 
"since  I  came  up  to  London  six  years  ago.  Our  incomes 
being  so  limited,  the  railway  fare  between  London  and 
Merthyr  Tydvil — even  third  class — constitutes  an  ef- 
fectual barrier  between — in  short,  Gwendollen  and  my- 
self. But  I  make  no  doubt  she  is  as  delightful  as  ever. 
I  do  not  possess  a  portrait  of  her,  as  photography  is  a 
comparatively  expensive  process.  And  we  cannot  cor- 
respond as  frequently  as  we  would  wish,  for  the  same 
economical  reason.  Thus,  as  you  will  see,  the  attainment 
of  my  object  would  be,  to  both  of  us,  a  positive  Boon." 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  217 

He  got  off  the  stool  and  went  away,  but  turned  back 
at  the  door  to  remind  me  that  the  Easter  holidays  were 
not  very  far  off.  He  was  cold  and  reserved  in  his  man- 
ner next  Monday,  and  I  guessed  that  he  partly  repented 
having  taken  me  into  his  confidence  regarding  the  young 
lady  at  Merthyr  Tydvil.  For  another  thing,  he  was  ex- 
cessively busy,  and  so  walled  in,  encompassed  by,  and 
built  up  with  the  ledgers  of  the  firm,  that  he  was  less 
assailable,  from  a  conversational  point  of  view,  than  a 
Recluse  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Anfl  so  the  days  passed  over.  But  on  the  Saturday 
.afternoon  immediately  preceding  Easter  Monday  he 
sought  me  out  in  quite  a  special  sort  of  way,  and  bade 
me  good-bye  almost  effusively,  for  him.  His  hat  slid 
to  the  back  of  his  head  as  he  shook  my  hand,  and  sev- 
eral volumes  which  he  was  carrying  under  his  arm 
tumbled  noisily  to  the  floor.  I  helped  him  pick  them 
up,  and  glanced  at  the  titles.  "Ashtaroth  Made  Easy" 
was  one ;  "Proofs  Positive  of  the  Solidarity  of  Spooks" 
another ;  "The  Young  Theosophist :  an  Easy  First  Primer 
To  The  Attainment  Of  The  Occult,"  a  third ;  "How 
To  Make  a  Mahatma,"  a  fourth.  They  were  lent,  he 
explained,  by  his  Society.  And  he  shook  my  hand  again 
before  we  parted,  and  thanked  me  for  the  sympathy  I 
had  exhibited,  and  added  that  he  felt  somehow  as  if  he 
were  upon  the  verge  of  a  great  discovery.  I  gave  him 
the  address  of  the  lodgings  where  I  intended  to  spend 
the  vacation,  and  invited  him  to  run  down  and  see  me 
sometimes.  He  thanked  me,  shaking  his  head  with  a 
mild  kind  of  despondency.  And  so  we  parted. 

I  spent  my  Easter  holiday,  I  hope,  harmlessly  and 
healthfully  enough,  and  in  a  style  that  was  in  accordance 
with  my  comparatively  limited  income.  Upon  a  salary 
of  seventy  pounds,  even  when  buttressed  and  supported 
by  an  annual  present  of  ten,  it  is  possible  for  a  City  Clerk 
to  exist,  if  not  to  live,  and  even  to  set  apart  a  margin 


218  A  Sailor's  Home 

for  mild  relaxation  and  sober  recreation — of  a  kind.  But 
enjoyment,  fun,  frolic,  sport,  jollification,  are  quantities 
to  him  unknown.  In  his  inmost  soul  he  secretly  cher- 
ishes the  intention  of  having  what  is  technically  known 
as  a  High  Old  Time  at  some  future  day,  but  the  date 
of  that  day  is  ever  indeterminate.  Sometimes  it  is  vir- 
tually fixed,  and  looms  before  him  as  a  glorious  prac- 
ticability, but  before  it  comes  off  he  may  die  of  old 
age  or  excessive  joy.  For  your  true  City  clerk  is  a 
sensitive  creature.  Much  chafing  of  the  os  pectoris 
against  the  edge  of  the  office  desk  has  tended  to  the 
thinning  of.  the  wall  which  was  originally  designed  to 
protect  the  human  heart  from  the  slings  and  arrows 
which  are  continually  aimed  by  the  world  against  that 
citadal  of  the  emotions.  But  I  digress. 

In  the  Village  of  Hampton  Wick,  therefore — in  the 
house  of  an  excellent  widow  who  had  had  long  experi- 
ence in  the  taking  in  of  the  City  gentlemen,  and  could 
underboil  a  potato  or  calcine  a  chop  with  any  member 
of  her  sisterhood  who  ever  stood  in  list  slippers — I  passed 
three  days  of  my  vacation.  My  canoe — a  present  from 
an  old  fellow-clerk,  now  a  well-to-do  Manitoban  farmer 
— I  had  had  sent  up,  and  when  the  dear  old  river  was 
not  too  lumpy  to  be  agreeable,  I  paddled  about  the  quiet 
reaches  between  Kingston  and  Twickenham,  or  dug  my 
way  upstream  as  far  as  Shepperton  or  Molesey.  Or  I 
smoked  my  pipe  under  the  gnarled  thorns  and  budding 
chestnuts  of  Richmond  Park,  and  read  "Lavengro"  over 
again,  or  dipped  into  the  jolly  pages  of  Rabelais  or 
Chaucer,  and  was  never  dull  or  dismal  until  the  even- 
ing of  the  very  last  day.  Easter  Monday  was  drawing 
to  a  close — I  must  return  to  business  on  the  following 
morning.  It  had  been  a  wet  Bank  Holiday,  and  as  the 
rainy  night  closed  in,  and  the  evil-smelling  paraffin  lamp 
was  lighted,  and  the  mousy  odours  of  ancient  cupboards 
began  to  draw  comparisons  with  dry-rot  and  old  mouldi- 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  219 

ness,  and  the  three  stunted  pollard-beeches  that  kept 
watch  and  ward  over  the  little  weedy  front  garden  threw 
their  distorted  goblin  shadows  on  the  drawn-down  calico 
blind,  I  could  have  wished  for  some  companionship  live- 
lier than  that  of  the  stuffed  grouse  under  the  glass  case 
on  the  sideboard,  or  the  blunt-nosed  red-and-white  china 
spaniels  on  the  mantel-shelf,  or  the  portrait  of  a  lady 
unknown — in  Berlin  wools — hung  above.  As  to  cultivat- 
ing the  society  of  my  landlady,  that  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  stared  hard  at  the  glowing  coke  embers  and 
glided  almost  imperceptibly  into  a  smooth  sea  of  reflec- 
tion. Suddenly  its  waters  became  troubled.  Before  the 
eye  of  my  imagination  up  bobbed  a  sandy  head,  and  I 
smiled,  identifying  it  as  the  property  of  Johnson- Wil- 
liams. Poor  fellow!  I  smiled  again  as  I  pictured  him, 
patiently  supporting  his  holiday  upon  that  ascetic  regimen 
of  wholemeal  porridge,  raw  apples,  and  charcoal  biscuits. 

II  wondered  whether  he  had  made  any  progress  in  the 
cult  of  Theosophy?  whether  he  was  any  nearer  to  the 
fulfilment  of  his  Aim  than  he  had  been  when  I  saw  him 
last?  Did  the  theatrical  young  lady  continue  to  harass 
him  by  saltatory  gambols  performed  overhead  ?  Was  his 
landlady  still  persecuting  him  with  assiduous  solicitudes 
upon  the  subject  of  rashers  and  lightly-boiled  London 


eggs 


Mph!  ! 

I  drew  out  my  handkerchief  and  flapped  it,  and  glanced 
towards  the  window  with  a  developing  intention  of  open- 
ing it,  for  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  decidedly 
hazy.  Perhaps  the  chimney  smoked !  But  the  fire  burned 
perfectly  clear.  It  must  be  that  villainous  paraffin  lamp. 
My  mind,  which  had  been  full  of  Johnson- Williams,  dis- 
charged itself  of  its  personality. 

And  in  the  same  instant 


22O  A  Sailor's  Home 

in 

And  in  the  same  instant  the  haziness  vanished.  I  leant 
my  head  back  upon  the  bumpy  chintz  cushion  of  the  strad- 
dle-legged easy  chair.  I  resumed  my  train  of  thought. 
It  brought  Johnson- Williams  in  with  the  very  first  batch 
of  passengers.  He  buttonholed  me,  mentally,  and 
wouldn't  be  shaken  off.  And  the  room  was  getting 
smoky  again.  It  must  be  something  wrong  with  the 
register  of  the  grate.  Quite  a  cloud,  or,  to  be  correct, 
a  column  of  nebulous  bluish  vapour  hung  in  the  space 
between  the  fender  and  my  arm-chair.  I  wondered  idly 
at  its  peculiar  shape,  which  was  that  of  a  trunk,  bifur- 
cated at  the  upper  and  lower  extremities.  It  had,  so  to 
speak,  arms  and  legs,  and — yes,  a  head!  The  legs  were 
getting  more  distinct  every  minute.  And — it  was  an 
absurd  idea  enough — but  they  certainly  bore  a  resemb- 
lance to  the  legs  of  Johnson- Williams,  on  which  he  in- 
variably wore  trousers  of  a  material  which  he  asserted 
to  be  real  Welsh  tweed,  of  extraordinary  durability  and 
cheapness.  And  all  at  once  the  conviction  came  upon 
me,  not  with  a  staggering  shock,  or  a  chill  shudder,  but 
with  a  sensation  of  calm  unemotional  surprise, 
that  in  very  reality,  those  familiar  garments  were  stand- 
ing upon  the  hearthrug  in  front  of  me,  with  Johnson- 
Williams  inside  them. 

Perhaps  his  boots  came  home  to  me  most  keenly.  They 
were  of  the  obsolete  spring-sided  make,  very  ponderous 
of  sole,  and  garnished  upon  the  insteps  with  little  round 
flat  buttons  that  did  not  button  up  anything.  I  had  often 
wondered  whether,  like  the  rest  of  Johnson-Williams, 
they  had  been  made  in  Wales.  With  a  dreamy,  pleasur- 
able sense  of  recognition,  I  let  my  glance  travel  upwards 
to  the  black  waistcoat,  garnished  with  a  nickel  watch- 
chain — from  thence  to  the  Navy  blue  cravat  with  a  little 
bird's-eye  specks  of  orange  on  it — from  that  to  a  linen 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  221 

collar  with  brown  horseshoes  (Johnson-Williams  had  al- 
ways been  partial  to  linen  of  a  pictorial  description). 
This  stage  led  me  easily  to  his  chin,  and  in  the  same 
way  I  scaled  his  upper  lip — a  long  and  steep  one — and 
mounted  to  his  eyes.  Then  I  nodded. 

"Good-evening,"  said  Johnson-Williams,  distantly,  in 
both  senses  of  the  word,  because  his  manner  was  con- 
strained and  nervous,  and  his  voice  sounded  faint  and 
hollow  as  if  it  came  from  a  long  way  off. 

"Good-evening,  old  fellow,"  I  returned.  "D'you  know, 
I  must  have  been  asleep  and  dreaming  of  you  when 
you  came  in,  for  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  there  you  were, 
like  a  vision!"  I  jumped  up  and  shook  myself  as  I 
spoke,  and  glanced  towards  the  cupboard  where  the 
whisky-bottle  and  the  soda-syphon  stood.  It  seems  so 
natural  to  offer  a  man  a  drink  when  he  has  come  a 
long  way  to  see  you.  And  it  was  late  already.  I  should 
probably  have  to  harbour  my  guest  for  the  night.  There 
was  a  mechanical  trick-bed  in  the  sitting-room.  It  had 
annoyed  me  by  the  flagrant  transparency  of  its  attempt 
to  look  like  a  bookcase,  but  now  it  would  meet  an  emer- 
gency. There  would  be  bread-and-cheese,  potted  bloat- 
ers, and  Scotch  ale  for  supper,  and  for  breakfast — I 
must  talk  to  my  landlady  about  breakfast. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  tired,  old  fellow!"  I  cried,  with 
sudden  concern,  for  Johnson-Williams  had  grown 
strangely  pale  and  shadowy.  But  as  I  fixed  my  waver- 
ing attention  on  him  he  seemed  to  revive,  and  refused 
my  proffer  of  refreshment  with  a  faint  smile. 

"No  stimulant,  thank  you,  my  dear  Pegley."  He  waved 
away  the  whisky-bottle  as  he  spoke. 

"After  your  railway  journey?"  I  urged. 

"I  did  not  travel  down,"  returned  Johnson-Williams, 
"by  rail." 

"You  walked?"  I  uttered,  aghast;  I  had  forgotten  the 
low  state  of  the  poor  fellow's  finances.  "Walked  all 


222  A  Sailor's  Home 

the  way  from  London  and  on  such  a  beastly  evening  ?" 

"One  could  hardly  call  it  walking,"  said  Johnson- 
Williams. 

How  had  he  been  conveyed  to  Hampton  Wick,  then? 
I  plunged  into  the  mazes  of  a  labyrinth  of  probabilities. 
Had  the  driver  of  a  Pick  ford's  van  given  him  a  life,  or  a 
mail-cart  man  ?  A  basket-seller's  caravan  was  out  of  the 
question,  because  vehicles  of  that  description  travel  so 
slowly.  How,  then?  I  looked  up  and  uttered  a  shout  of 
surprise,  for  Johnson- Williams  was  gone! 

Clean  gone!  There  was  no  need  to  look  under  the 
table,  it  was  not  big  enough  to  hide  a  full-grown  man, 
and  Johnson-Williams  was  incapable  of  playing  a  trick. 
No;  my  fellow-clerk  had  vanished  from  sight,  without 
employing  such  means  of  egress  as  might  have  been  af- 
forded by  the  window,  the  door,  or  the  chimney,  which 
was  up  to  its  old  games  again.  There  hung  the  cloud  of 
smoke  I  remembered  noticing  before  Johnson- Williams 
had  come  in.  Stay !  Had  he  come  in  ?  I  breathed  heav- 
ily through  my  nostrils,  and  dug  my  nails  into  the  palms 
of  my  hands,  as  I  tried  to  recall  the  features  of  my 
friend.  Then  something  like  a  thin  stream  of  ice-water 
coursed  down  my  spinal  column.  My  heart  sat  down 
with  a  bump,  and  my  hair  got  up  and  began  to  walk 
upon  my  scalp,  for  the  face  of  Johnson-Williams  was 
looking  at  me  from  the  summit  of  a  hazy  transparency, 
whose  shifting  outlines  bore  the  dimmest  possible  rela- 
tion to  the  human  form.  The  eyes  blinked,  the  lips 
moved.  He  spoke  hollowly,  as  the  Man  in  the  Cellar 
responds  to  the  interrogation  of  the  ventriloquist. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed.  Compose  yourself.  Try  and 
think  of  something  soothing.  If  you  were  to  repeat  the 
Multiplication  table,  or  the  rules  of  Book-keeping,  or  the 
principal  Articles  of  the  Collision  Clause,  or  the  Statute 
Limitations  of  Insurance,  it  might  have  a  steadying  effect 
upon  your  nerves." 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  223 

The  hollow  voice  became  hollower,  his  outlines  began 
to  grow  dim,  as  with  protruding  eyes  I  stared  upon 
him.  A  thousand  wild  ideas  spun  in  my  brain.  Was 
he?  Was  I?  Were  we?  Horror!  He  was  beginning 
to  fade  before  my  eyes !  He  would  be  gone  in  another 
minute ! 

"Unless  you  can  concentrate  your  attention  on  me, 
my  dear  Pegley,  it  is  very  likely." 

He  spoke  with  some  asperity,  replying  to  my  thoughts 
as  though  they  had  been  uttered  aloud. 

"The  fact  is — and  I  only  withheld  it  up  to  this  moment 
out  of  a  natural  reluctance  to  startle  you — the  fact  is, 
that  I  am  not  myself." 

I  had  been  sure  of  that. 

"Your  misapprehend  me,  my  dear  Pegley,"  went  on 
Johnson-Williams,  putting  me  more  at  my  ease  by  the 
familiarity  of  his  address,  and  the  slight  smile  which 
hovered  over  his  long  pale  countenance,  as  his  familiar 
figure,  spotted  cravat,  Welsh  tweeds,  and  all  began  to 
loom  into  view  again.  "I  am  quite  myself  in  the  more 
spiritual  sense  of  the  word  if,  materially,  I  fail  to  come 
up  to  the  mark.  But  with  a  little  practice" — he  waved 
his  hand  encouragingly — "you  will  be  able  to  develop  me 
to — in  short,  to  any  extent  you  may  consider  desir- 
able." 

Now  I  found  speech.    The  truth  flashed  upon  me. 

"Then — then  you  have  done  it  at  last?" 

"I  have  done  it  at  last,"  echoed  Johnson-Williams, 
nodding  at  me  cheerfully.  "I  told  you  when  we  parted 
that  I  felt  something  was  really  going  to  happen  this 
time.  In  a  word,  my  friend,  I  have  attained  the  Pitch, 
to  the  level  of  which  my  faculties  have  been  earnestly 
strained  ever  since  I  became  a  convert  to  Theosophy. 
Chorley  is  nowhere.  I  have  outdistanced  every  member 
of  our  Society."  He  rubbed  his  unsubstantial  hands  and 
chuckled  ghostily.  "I  seem  solid  enough  at  this  moment 


224  A  Sailor's  Home 


But — think  of  it,  my  dear  Pegley — I  am  in  reality  a 
floating  bubble  on  the  currents  of  Astral  Force.  A  whiff 
of  cigarette  smoke — a  mist  wreath  has  more  actual  dens- 
ity. Dismiss  me  from  your  mind — I  am  gone,  like  a 
breath  from  a  mirror.  Recall  me,  and  I  revive.  Walk 
through  me — I  shall  not  offer  any  resistance.  Shake  me 
by  the  hand — you  will  feel  nothing  in  you  own.  Ha,  ha ! 
I  am  not  a  City  clerk,  but  the  essence  of  an  office  drudge 
— the  wraith  of  a  book-keeper  on  a  salary  of  sixty  pounds 
a  year.  Will-power  brought  me  down  to  Hampton  Wick 
— instead  of  steam — and  without  costing  me  a  halfpenny ; 
Will-power  will  take  me  back  again  and  set  me  down 
upon  the  sofa  in  my  lodgings  at  Great  Joram  Street, 
whenever  I  say  the  word !"  He  rubbed  his  hands  again 
and  beamed  delightedly. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  I  broke  in,  trying  to  seem 
commonplace  and  natural. 

"Thank  you,  dear  boy,"  Johnson-Williams  returned, 
"but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — in  fact,  to  Hover,  I 
should  take  it  as  a  kindness.  You  have  always  been  so 
agreeable  in  your  manner,  and  so  frank  in  your  sympathy 
with  my  Aims,  that  I  feel  perfectly  at  home  already." 

I  held  out  my  hand,  and  he  grasped  it  heartily- — at 
least,  he  seemed  to,  and  with  a  full  return  of  confidence 
in  him  and  in  myself,  I  put  his  sincerity  to  a  final  test 
by  walking  through  him,  taking  my  pipe  and  tobacco 
pouch  from  the  mantel  self  and  returning,  via  the  same 
route,  to  my  chair.  My  mind  was  so  firmly  fixed  on 
him,  that  he  never  faltered. 

And  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  while  the  red  fire's 
core  burned  hollow,  and  the  paraffin  in  the  lamp  waxed 
low,  Johnson- Williams  told  me  the  rest  of  his  story. 

IV 

"I  shall  begin,"  said  Johnson-Williams,  "at  the  begin- 
ning. It  will  not  surprise  you  to  learn,  in  the  face  of 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  225 

the  present  glorious  Result,  that  in  the  matter  of  my 
attaining  the  absolute  quiet  and  seclusion  essential  to 
the  furtherance  of  my  Aim,  Fortune  favoured  me  most 
unexpectedly.  This  identical  morning,  the  young  lady 
(theatrical,  if  you  remember)  who  rents  the  fifth  floor 
(immediately  above  me)  at  No.  26,  Great  Joram  Street, 
was  called  away  to  ...  in  fact,  to  stay  from  Satur- 
day till  Monday  with  an  elderly  aunt,  from  whom  she 
has  expectations.  That  in  itself  was  a  great  piece  of 
good  luck.  My  landlady  then,  knowing  that  my  claims 
upon  her  attention  in  the  way  of  cooking  and  so  forth, 
are  not  urgent,  and  the  rest  of  the  house  being  To  Let — 
very  reasonable  terms  and  clean  beyond  any  previous 
experience " 

He  was  standing  in  a  familiar  attitude,  talking  quite 
naturally.  I  was  sitting  on  a  chair,  with  my  arms  folded 
on  the  back  of  it,  and  my  chin  resting  on  them,  looking 
at  him  intently.  For  I  knew  that  he  would  go  out  like 
a  candle-snuff,  if  I  relaxed  the  mental  strain,  only  for 
an  instant. 

"My  landlady  took  the  children,"  Johnson-Williams 
continued,  "to  a  relative  at  Whitechapel,  being  anxious, 
as  she  expressed  it,  for  a  whiff  of  country  air.  She  left 
the  servant  girl  in  charge  of  the  house,  with  express 
orders  not  to  stir  out  of  it  until  her  return  at  six  o'clock. 
Nor  would  Jemima  have  disobeyed  her  mistress,  I  am 
sure,  had  not  an  unforeseen  casualty — the  illness,  in  fact, 
of  a  sister  living  at  Woolwich,  obliged  her  to " 

"I  see,"  I  said. 

"She  was  very  much  Upset  at  leaving,"  Johnson- 
Williams  continued,  "though  she  expressed  unbounded 
confidence  in  my  capability  of  looking  after  affairs  as 
general.  Her  sister's  brother-in-law  (a  Gunner  in  the 
Royal  Horse  Artillery)  fetched  her  away.  I  bolted  and 
barred  the  front  door  and  that  of  the  area,  when  she  had 
gone,  and  stuffed  up  the  bells.  The  field  at  last  was  mine. 


226  A  Sailor's  Home 


He  struck  the  table  strenuously,  but  soundlessly,  with 
his  clenched  hand,  and  his  eyes  glowed  with  triumph. 

"I  locked  the  door,  made  up  the  fire  with  damp  slack, 
so  as  -to  reconcile  the  greatest  amount  of  warmth  with 
the  smallest  amount  of  blaze  and  crackle — partook  of  a 
light  meal — an  Australian  apple  with  one  slice  of  brown 
bread,  and  washed  the  whole  down  with  a  glass  of  water. 
Then  I  pulled  down  the  blinds  and  extended  myself 
upon  the  sofa — head  low,  arms  rigidly  pressed  to  my 
sides,  heels  close  together — the  posture  pronounced,  on 
the  authority  of  distinguished  Adepts,  to  be  most  favour- 
able to  the  attainment  of  the  Pitch.  I  set  my  teeth, 
closed  my  eyes,  and  summoned  up  all  the  forces  of  my 
Will  to  assist  in  the  divorcement  of  my  Astral  Body 
from  my  earthly  one.  Cold  chills  ran  down  my  back, 
a  clammy  liquid  seemed  to  trickle  through  the  roots  of 
my  hair.  From  the  tips  of  my  fingers  and  the  ends  of 
my  toes,  from  every  pore  of  my  body,  I  felt  the  con- 
tinuous discharge  of  currents  of  Magnetic  Force.  My 
respiration  grew  less  perceptible,  my  heart  beat  more 
and  more  faintly  every  moment,  as  my  will-power  gained 
in  force.  Effort  seemed  carried  to  the  highest  pitch 
attainable,  when  suddenly  volition  ceased.  I  lost  con- 
sciousness— only  for  a  moment.  When  I  came  to  myself, 
I  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room." 

I  drew  a  long  breath  and  said,  "Go  on." 

"My  first  sensation  was  one  of  disappointment,"  said 
Johnson-Williams,  "the  next  was  one  of  surprise,  that 
the  intense  mental  exertion  through  which  I  had  just 
passed  had  left  me  so  fresh  and  unexhausted.  My  feet 
hardly  seemed  to  touch  the  ground  when  I  moved  towards 
the  chimney-glass,  impelled  by  the  desire  of  testing,  by 
means  of  that  medium,  whether  I  looked  pale.  I  rested 
my  elbows  on  the  mantelshelf,  I  leaned  forwards  and 
saw " 

"You  saw?" 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  227 

"Nothing  at  all!"  returned  Johnson-Williams,  with 
quiet  enjoyment  "No  image  was  reflected  in  the  glass. 
Only  a  patch  of  film,  a  haze  dimmed  its  surface.  My 
first  impression  was,  that  the  chimney  must  be  smoking 
furiously.  I  glanced  at  the  hearth  and  found  that  the 
fire  was  burning  with  a  steady  red  glow.  I  glanced  back 
at  the  glass  then.  It  gave  back  no  reflection.  And  then 
— then  my  eyes  wandered  to  the  sofa — and  in  an  instant 
I  understood,  for  the  sofa  had  an  occupant !  On  it  was 
stretched  a  human  figure,  the  figure  of  a  Man,  and  the 
Man  was — Myself!" 

I  was  getting  deeply  interested.  I  trifcd  to  say  "Go 
on !"  and  the  words  wouldn't  come.  My  mouth  was  dry. 

"I  lay  rigidly,  motionless  and  without  breath,  in  the 
posture  I  had  assumed  when  I  commenced  my  efforts. 
A  casual  onlooker  would  have  said  that  I  was  dead,  a 
scientific  observer  would  have  pronounced  me  to  be  in 
a  cataleptic  trance.  I  approached  and  examined  myself 
curiously.  Few  persons  on  this  globe,  my  dear  Pegley, 
have  enjoyed  so  favourable  an  opportunity  for  self-ex- 
amination. If  I  ever  had  cherished  any  vanity,  I  candidly 
confide  to  you — it  received  its  death-blow  in  that  hour." 

"Oh,  come !"  I  muttered.  Johnson- Williams  waved  the 
expostulation  away  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand. 

"Then,"  he  resumed,  "a  Thought  occurred  to  me.  which 
drove  all  minor  considerations  to  the  wall.  Here  was  I, 
newly  arrived  at  Adeptship,  freed  from  my  gross  earthly 
envelope,  standing  in  the  complete  'double'  or  Mayavi- 
rupa,  by  the  side  of  the  body  I  had  temporarily  rejected, 
as  though  no  glorious  Experiences  waited  for  me  else- 
where. The  Barriers  that  had  severed  me  from  the  dear- 
est object  of  my  soul  were  now  cast  down.  The  image 
of — can  you  not  imagaine  whose  image,  my  dear  Peg- 
ley?" 

"Of  the  young  lady  in  Wales  1"  I  burst  out. 

"Quite  right !"  nodded  Johnson-Williams — "uprose  be- 


228  A  Sailor's  Home 


fore  me.  Hurrah!  I  would  start  for  Merthyr  Tydvil 
without  delay." 

"Go  on!"  I  cried,  breathlessly. 

"The  intention  was  no  sooner  formed  than  I  passed 
without  conscious  effort,  through  the  panels  of  the  door, 
which,  you  will  remember,  I  had  previously  locked,  and 
floated  down  the  staircase.  My  hat  and  overcoat  hung 
upon  the  rack  in  the  hall ;  my  umbrella  leaned  beside 
them.  My  first  impulse  was  to  put  on  the  first-named 
articles;  my  second  to  rejoice  that  I  no  longer  needed 
such  material  protection  from  the  inclemencies  of  the 
English  climate.  In  another  instant  I  was  in  the  street." 


"I  could  see,"  continued  Johnson-Williams,  "that  it 
was  a  damp,  unpleasant  night,  but  I  was  not  sensible  of 
any  discomfort.  On  the  contrary,  an  airy  sensation  of 
lightness  pervaded  my  being,  lightness  which  was  so  far 
from  being  imaginary  that  with  the  first  puff  of  raw  wind 
that  came  round  the  corner,  I  rose  from  the  ground,  and 
soared  to  the  altitude  of  the  gas-lamps,  where  I  remained 
stationary,  mingling  my  astral  essence  with  the  trailing 
wreaths  of  fog  and  the  yellow  beams  of  vulgar  radiance 
that  permeated  through  them!  It  was  certainly  disap- 
pointing to  find  that,  try  as  I  would,  I  could  neither 
ascend  or  descend,  move  forwards  or  backwards,  though 
I  cheered  myself  by  the  reflection  that  the  astral  method 
of  traveling  must,  like  the  human  method  of  progression, 
take  a  certain  amount  of  time  in  learning.  The  question 
was:  How  much?  Only  fifty-one  hours  remained  to  me 
of  my  holiday.  It  had  taken  my  ordinary,  everyday  self 
a  fortnight  to  acquire,  in  the  elementary  sense  of  the 
word,  the  art  of  roller-skating.  How  long  would  it  take 
me  to  master  the  elementary  steps  necessary  for  the 
successful  transport  of  my  astral  body  to  Merthyr 
Tydvil? 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  229 

"As  I  revolved  the  problem  in  my  mind,  the  map  of 
North  Central  England  pictured  itself  before  my  mental 
vision  (I  have  a  considerable  practical  knowledge  of 
geography,  as  you  perhaps  have  observed),  with  my  na- 
tive county  of  Wales  snugly  tucked  away  in  a  southerly 
corner.  Spider-like  I  projected  an  invisible  filament  of 
Will-power  towards  Wales,  felt  it  catch,  and  immediately 
hauled  upon  it.  The  thing  was  done  almost  involuntary, 
but  in  the  same  instant  I  began  to  move.  Eureka !  The 
question  had  answered  itself !  Henceforth,  when  in 
Mayavi-rupa,  I  wanted  to  go  anywhere,  I  had  only  to 
project  my  mind  before  me,  and  my  astral  body  would 
follow  it  as  the  train  follows  the  engine,  or  the  vessel 
the  towing  tug." 

The  shade  of  Johnson- Williams  paused,  drew  from  its 
breast-pocket  the  ghost  of  a  coloured  handkerchief,  and 
wiped  its  brow — from  force  of  habit,  perhaps,  because 
there  was  no  moisture  there. 

I  had  grown  bold  enough  by  this  time  to  mix  myself 
a  whisky  and  soda.  I  lighted  my  pipe,  too,  and  as  its 
grateful  vapours  mounted  upon  the  air,  it  was  a  strange 
thing  to  know  that  Johnson- Williams  sitting  (he  was 
now  sitting)  in  the  chair  over  against  me  was  in  reality 
less  substantial  in  consistency. 

"I  was  now  high  above  the  earth,"  said  Johnson- 
Williams,  "and  travelling  at  an  immense  rate  of  speed. 
The  night  was  clear  and  the  stars  were  shining.  Nothing 
crossed  my  plane,  which  seemed  to  be  a  single  line.  Only 
once  I  encountered  a  fellow-traveller." 

"A  fellow-traveller !" 

"A  shadowy  Form  which  swooped  across  my  path 
obliquely  at  an  angle  of,  I  should  say,  thirty  degrees," 
replied  Johnson-Williams,  "travelling  at  a  rate  which 
indicated  an  enormous  amount  of  Will-pressure.  I  have 
no  doubt  he  was  a  Persian  Mahatma  or  an  Adept  from 
Thibet.  He  wore  a  spangled  kind  of  head-dress,  and  his 


230  A  Sailor's  Home 

long  gray  hair  and  beard  floated  behind  him.  His  legs 
were  crossed,  and  his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast  in  an 
attitude  of  meditation.  I  bowed  respectfully,  but  felt 
too  shy  to  speak." 

"I  wish  you  could  have  interview  him!"  I  said 
eagerly. 

"My  next  experience  was  quite  amusing,"  said  John- 
son-Williams. "Imagine  a  china  plate,  with  a  jam  tart — 
one  of  the  puff  description,  with  a  spot  of  jam  in  the  mid- 
dle— travelling  by  itself  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  a 
second.  Yet  that  is  what  I  saw.  Several  cocked-hat 
notes  passed  me,  shooting  in  opposite  directions,  projected 
by  opposing  currents  of  Astral  Force." 

"I  should  like  to  know  where  they  were  bound  for!" 
I  said  curiously.  "But  you  got  to  Merthyr  Tydvil  in 
the  end?" 

"You  do  right  to  rebuke  me  for  the  digression,  my  dear 
Pegley,"  returned  Johnson-Williams  good-naturedly. 
"I  am  trying  your  patience,  I  fear.  Yes,  I  arrived  at 
Merthyr  Tydvil.  I  knew  that  I  was  there,  when  my 
onward  course  was  suddenly  brought  to  an  abrupt  close, 
and  I  began  to  fall — quite  like  a  parachute. 

"The  house  of  Gwendolen's  employer  is  situated  on 
the  northern  outskirts  of  the  town,  commanding  an  un- 
obstructed view  of  what  is,  generally  speaking,  a  cin- 
derous  and  smutty  prospect.  Descending  vertically,  I 
alighted  on  the  roof.  Tiles  proved  no  obstacle  to  my  airy 
particles.  I  sank  through  them  and  found  myself  in  a 
room  which,  from  the  character  of  its  furniture  and  orna- 
ments, was  plainly  the  children's  nursery.  There  were 
only  two  occupants — a  baby  asleep  in  a  cradle,  and  my — 
Miss  Williams-Johnson." 

His  eyes  sparkled  at  the  delightful  recollection. 

"Time  has  not  impaired  those  personal  attractions, 
which,  in  conjunction  with  the  properties  of  her  mind, 
first  enchained  my  steadfast  affections,"  he  said.  "She 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  231 

was  perfectly  delightful  to  look  at,  without  and  within. 
I  say  within,  because  in  this  astral  condition  I  was  en- 
abled to  penetrate  into  the  recesses  of  her  mind  and  read 
her  thoughts  before  they  dawned  in  her  (most  expres- 
sive) countenance.  She  was  thinking  about  Me"— he 
hesitated,  and  looked  a  little  sheepish — "and  in  such  a 
strain  of  warm  and  constant  regard  and  tenderness,  that 
I  was  quite  affected." 

"  'How  good  he  is,  poor  fellow,  and  how  he  loves  me/ 
she  said,  without  speaking,  'and  how  long  it  is  since  we 
have  met.  How  long  must  it  be  before  we  meet  again — 
how  long  before  we  are  rich  enough  to  marry?  Ah,  think 
if  I  were  only  Llewellyn's  wife.' " 

"I  didn't  know  your  Christian  name  was  Llewellyn," 
I  put  in. 

"  'And  we  were  rich  enough  to  have  a  little  house  of 
our  own  to  live  in,  and  a  little  servant  to  wait  on  us,  in 
some  neat  suburb  of  London,  not  too  near  the  City  be- 
cause of  the  fogs — they  are  so  bad  for  Llewellyn's  chest 
— I  should  be  the  happiest  girl  in  all  the  world !' " 

"Miss  Williams-Johnson  must  be  a  very  nice  girl,"  I 
thought. 

"I  knew  you'd  say  so,"  responded  Johnson-Williams, 
just  as  if  I  had  spoken.  "Then  her  face  clouded  over, 
and  I  found  she  was  thinking  of  the  miserly  old  aunt 
who  had  brought  her  up  from  childhood,  and  who  had 
died  a  little  while  previously,  leaving  all  her  property 
for  the  benefit  of  a  charitable  institution.  Gwendollen 
could  not  help  wishing  that  the  old  lady  had  left  just  a 
little  to  her,  more  for  my  sake  than  her  own ;  and  then 
she  began  to  conjure  up  a  picture  of  me  in  her  mind — 
to  recall  my  features,  one  by  one,  and  each  separate 
article  of  dress  which  I  am  accustomed  to  wear,  with  the 
most  surprising  result!  Happening  to  stretch  my  hand 
out,  what  was  my  surprise  to  find  that  it  was  coming 
slowly  into  view — transparent  as  yet,  but  gradually  gain- 


232  A  Sailor's  Home 


ing  in  density  and  opacity.  I  was,  in  fact,  undergoing 
the  process  of  materialisation,  just  as  happened  when 
you " 

"Yes,  yes!"  I  assented  hastily. 

"With  a  pardonable  feeling  of  alarm,"  resumed  my 
visitor,  "I  glanced  downwards." 

VI 

"Downwards."  Johnson-Williams  seemed  to  blush. 
"It  had  occurred  to  me  that  the  earthly  and  perishable 
garments  in  which  my  worldly  frame  is  customarily  at- 
tired might  not  be  reproduced  upon  the — in  short — As- 
tral Body.  But  there  they  were!  It  was  reassuring  to 
recognise  the  pattern.  In  another  moment  Gwendolen's 
eyes  turned  full  upon  me.  She  stared  and  uttered  a 
slight  scream.  Now,  one  of  my  pet  theories,  often  un- 
folded to  you,  my  dear  Pegley,  is  based  on  the  compos- 
ing influence — in  moments  of  intense  excitement  or  men- 
tal confusion — of  the  repetition,  on  the  part  of  the 
patient,  of  a  familiar  formula  of  words.  From  this 
arose  my  suggestion  that  you  should  repeat  the  multi- 
plication table  in  the  first  moments  of  your  surprise  at 
my  unexpected  appearance.  I  see  that  you  recall  the 
instance!  Therefore,  when  I  put  to  Gwendollen  the 
opening  interrogation  of  the  Catechism,  according  to 
the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  generally  used  by  mem- 
bers of  the  Protestant  Church,  it  was  done  deliberately 
and  the  result  more  than  justified  my  previous  convic- 
tions. To  the  first  question,  'What  is  your  name?'  the 
dear  girl  replied  hesitatingly  enough ;  but  'Who  gave  you 
that  name?'  met  with  a  fluent  response,  and  'What  did 
your  Godfathers  and  Godmothers  then  do  for  you?' 
brought  her  round  completely.  With  the  secret  of  my 
Theosophical  studies  Gwendollen  has  long  been  familiar. 
Therefore  it  was  possible  to  answer  her  interrogations 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  233 

as  to  how  I  had  come  to  Merthyr,  and  in  what  manner 
obtained  access  to  the  nursery  of  her  infant  charges, 
and  so  forth,  in  a  very  few  sentences: 

"  'I  can  hardly  believe  it,'  said  Gwendollen,  when  I 
had  done. 

"  'If  you  doubt  me,  my  dearest  girl,'  I  replied,  'put 
the  truth  of  my  assertions  to  the  test.  Give  me  a  kiss !' 

"She  pursed  up  her  lips  in  the  old  delightful  way,  and 
came  towards  me,  blushing  like — like  a  June  rose!  I 
kissed  her  with  all  my  heart.  Judge  of  my  concern 
when  her  face  puckered  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears ! 

"  'What  is  the  matter  ?'  I  exclaimed. 

"  'You  are  so — so  unsubstantial !'  she  sobbed.  'You 
look  just  as  usual,  yet,  when  I  came  to  kiss  you,  it  was 
worse  than  kissing  a  soap-bubble.  There  wasn't  even 
the  taste  of  soap !' 

"I  wanted  very  much  to  comfort  Gwendollen,  and  the 
best  way  of  doing  it,  it  appeared  to  me,  would  have 
been  to  take  her  on  my  knee.  But,  under  the  circum- 
stances, was  that  to  be  managed?  We  did  at  last 
surmount  the  difficulty — iir  a  kind  of  way.  I  sat  on  a 
chair,  as  I  sit  now,  and  she  placed  herself  on  the  same 
piece  of  furniture  sidewise ;  but  it  was  not  half  so  com- 
forting as  the  real  thing.  However,  we  could  talk,  and 
talk  we  did,  without  any  apprehension  on  my  part  of 
losing  the  train  and  forfeiting  my  return  ticket,  and  not 
having  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  lodging,  or  to  take 
me  back  to  London  next  morning.  The  baby  slept 
soundly  all  this  time,  and  the  mutual  confidences  of 
Gwendollen  and  myself  were  only  disturbed  by  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Gwendollen,  tearing  her  attention  from  me, 
instantly  sprang  to  it  and  opened  it  a  very  little  way. 
The  knocker  proved  to  be  one  of  the  female  servants 
with  a  letter. 

"  'For  you,  please,  miss,'  she  said,  seeming  quite  de- 
lighted (Gwendollen  is  a  universal  favourite).  'I  do 


234  A  Sailor's  Home 

hope  it  is  the  right  one!'  (I  need  hardly  explain,  my 
dear  Pegley,  that  the  right  one  would  have  been  a  let- 
ter from  me.)  Then  she  went  on  to  say  that  she  hoped 
the  baby  would  soon  go  off  to  sleep  and  give  Miss 
Williams- Johnson  a  chance  to  read  it.  (The  good  crea- 
ture could  hardly  have  been  more  eager  over  an  amatory 
epistle  from  a  sweetheart  of  her  own.) 

'"Why,  Winny/  said  Gwendollen,  in  surprise,  'the 
baby  has  been  asleep  this  hour  and  more!' 

"Winny  could  hardly  believe  it ;  for  happening  to  pass 
the  nursery  door  several  times  within  the  last  hour, 
when  engaged  in  the  exercise  of  her  household  duties, 
she  had  distinctly,  she  averred,  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
'murmuring-like.'  This  had  conveyed  to  her  the  impres- 
sion that  the  baby  was  obstinately  wakeful,  and  that  his 
governess  was  endeavouring  to  lull  him  into  forgetful- 
ness  by  telling  him  a  story. 

"'I — I  was  reading  aloud  to  myself,  Winny,'  Gwen- 
dollen returned,  and  though  her  back  was  turned  to  me, 
I  could  see  the  tips  of  her  ears  redden  at  the  fib  she  was 
telling.  Then  she  would  have  shut  the  door,  but,  before 
she  could  do  so,  Winny  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"'Lawk!'  she  said,  'how  the  parlour  flue  do  leak,  to 
be  sure!'  (There  was  no  fire  in  the  nursery  grate.)  'The 
room  is  full  of  smoke,  miss,  so  it  is!'  And  before  my 
alarmed  Gwendollen  could  prevent  her,  she  pushed  past 
her  and  came  in,  walking  heavily  on  tiptoe.  She  sniffed 
as  she  approached  me.  'My  heart!  what  a  smell  o' 
soot!  Sure  to  goodness,  miss,  you  must  be  smothered 
alive!'  She  walked  backwards  and  forwards  through 
me,  without  (to  my  intense  relief)  appearing  to  notice 
anything  in  the  least  out  of  the  common.  She  flapped 
vigorously  with  her  apron,  creating  a  draught  which 
nearly  carried  me  up  the  chimney.  '  Tis  a  shame !'  she 
said,  'and  the  window  not  to  be  opened  acause  of  the 
baby/  She  shook  her  head,  she  sighed  loudly  and  os- 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  235 

tentatiously.  'I've  often  murmured,  miss/  she  said, 
'acause  the  Lord  had  been  pleased  to  make  me  nothing 
better  than  a  housemaid.  But  He  might  have  done 
worse.  .  .  .  He  might  have  made  me  a  nursery  gov- 
erness!' She  shook  her  head  again,  heaved  another 
gusty  sigh,  and  creaked  out  of  the  room.  Gwnedollen 
turned  to  me  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  'How  annoying !'  she  exclaimed,  'that  girl  should 
have  come  in  like  that !  It  seems  so— so  degrading,  that 
you  should  have  been  mistaken  for  a  smoky  chimney, 
though  you  have  grown  so  faint  I  can  hardly  believe 
that  you  are  really  there.' 

"I  was  beginning  to  revive  now  that  Gwendolen's 
undivided  attention  was  mine  again.  A  burning  eager- 
ness possessed  me.  As  soon  as  I  became  developed 
enough  to  speak,  I  begged  her  to  read  the  letter  in  her 
hand.  Its  contents  had  greatly  astonished  me." 

"How  could  you  know  what  the  letter  said,"  I  asked, 
"when  you  had  not  opened  the  envelope?" 

"Easily  enough,"  returned  Johnson- Williams.  "Mat- 
ter is  no  obstruction  to  the  thought-body,  and  therefore 
to  the  thought-intelligence  the  contents  of  an  unopened 
letter  one  has  any  desire  to  read  are  as  plain  as  print. 
When  a  common  earthly  medium,"  he  spoke  with  great 
scorn,  "can  perform  the  feat  in  question,  is  it  likely  that 
it  would  present  any  unsurmountable  difficulties  to  Me — 
in  my  present  etherealised  condition?" 

I  begged  his  pardon  quite  humbly,  and  he  went  on: 

"The  letter  contained  astonishing  news — glorious 
news,  for  Gwendollen  and  myself." 

VII 

"The  letter  contained  glorious  news,  as  I  have  said. 
The  writer  was  head  clerk  in  the  employ  of  a  firm  of 
solicitors  established  in  Llanberis,  the  town  where 


236  A  Sailor's  Home 

Gwendollen,  until  a  few  years  previously,  had  resided 
with  the  elderly  aunt  who,  in  fact,  reared  her  from  in- 
fancy, though  not  with  affection,  still  with  a  kind  of 
sour  kindness,  and  whose  recent  decease  and  eccentric 
testamentary " 

"I  know,"  I  interrupted,  "few  thousands  in  Consols — 
little  furniture — left  to  an  hospital.  You  said  that  be- 
fore." 

"I  may  have  done  so,  my  dear  Pegley,"  remonstrated 
the  Shade  of  Johnson-Williams,  "but  I  wish  you  had  let 
me  say  it  again,  because,  in  point  of  fact,  the  contents 
of  the  solicitor's  letter  did  much  to  remove  any  imputa- 
tion of  injustice  from  the  old  lady's  conduct.  It  ap- 
peared that  a  codicil  had  been  discovered  in  a  Delft  tea- 
pot, bearing  a  later  date  than  the  Will  itself,  and  provid- 
ing humbly  enough — but  still  providing — for  Gwendol- 
len's  future  wants.  A  hundred  a  year,  together  with  a 
small  houseful  of  furniture,  is  not  a  windfall  to  be 
sneezed  at." 

I  agreed  to  that. 

"I  leave  you  to  imagine  Gwendolen's  joy,"  went  on 
my  friend,  smiling.  "Her  first  impulse  was  to  throw 
herself  into  my  arms ;  in  fact,  she  only  just  remembered 
herself  in  time  to  prevent  an  unpleasant  contingency.  But 
I  took  her  round  the  waist,  and  we  did  do  a  few  steps 
of  a  polka  together,  so  inexpressible  was  our  joy.  We 
had  a  short  consultation  before  I  took  my  leave,  and  the 
upshot  of  it  all  was  that  Gwendollen  should  communicate 
her  good  fortune  to  her  employers,  take  all  necessary  steps 
to  secure  her  legacy,  follow  up  with  a  month's  warning, 
at  the  expiration  of  the  month  proceed  to  London 
(where,  in  the  meantime,  I  am  to  engage  suitable  lodg- 
ings for  her),  marry  me  as  cheaply,  strongly  and  quickly 
as  the  knot  can  be  tied,  and  instantly  set  about  the  in- 
stallation of  a  calm  connubial  Paradise  upon  the  fourth 
floor  of  26,  Great  Joram  Street." 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  237 

He  beamed  with  delightful  anticipation  as  he  uttered 
those  concluding  words.  I  sprang  from  my  chair.  I 
seized  his  hand  and  squeezed  it  warmly.  I  slapped  him 
on  the  back — at  least,  I  went  through  a  pantomime  of 
doing  these  things.  He  was  very  much  gratified,  and 
tears  rose  to  his  eyes;  whether  from  genuine  emotion 
or  the  thump  I  had  given  him  I  had  no  opportunity  of 
ascertaining. 

"You — you  are  most  kind,  my  dear  Pegley!"  he  said, 
winking  rapidly  and  swallowing  a  lump  that  seemed  to 
rise  in  his  throat,  "and  embolden  me  to  make  a  request 
in  which — in  which  Gwendollen  joins.  Will  you  favour 
me,  when  the  nuptial  ceremony  really  comes  off,  by  be- 
ing, in  fact,  my  Best  Man?" 

I  said  I  would,  with  hearty  pleasure. 

"And  if  at  the  same  time — Gwendollen  and  myself 
having  so  few  friends — you  would  go  through  the  form 
of  giving  away  the — the  Bride,"  said  my  friend,  "we 
should  take  it  very  kindly  of  you.  A  quiet  little  break- 
fast afterwards  at  Joram  Street — I  see  what  is  passing 
through  your  mind,  but  make  yourself  quite  easy" — 
Johnson-Williams  rubbed  his  hands  delightedly  and 
chuckled — "the  Spartan  regimen  to  which  1  have  of 
late  accustomed  myself  will  from  henceforth  be  aban- 
doned in  favour  of  a  more  generous  diet.  And  now,  as 
it  is  getting  late " 

"You  are  going  ?" 

"I  am  about  to  return  to  Great  Joram  Street,  and 
resume  my  ordinary  everyday  material  self,"  returned 
Johnson-Williams.  "I  must  confess  that  I  am  curious 
to  learn  how  things  have  gone  on  in  my  absence;  for  I 
came  straight  here  from  Wales.  Somebody  may  be 
knocking  at  the  door,  or,"  he  grew  pale,  "something  may 
have  caught  fire!  It  would  not  be  a  nice  thing  for  me 
to  return  and  find  my  ordinary  corporeal  frame  calcined 
to  a  cinder,  particularly  when  I  shall  be  wanting  it  in  a 


238  A  Sailor's  Home 

month's  time  to  be  married  in.  Even  if  it  were  possible 
to  obtain  another,"  ended  Johnson-Williams  bashfully, 
"I — I  really  think  the  substitution  would  not  be  agreeable 
to  Gwendollen,  for,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  dear  girl 
really  loves  me,  Pegley." 

We  shook  hands.  He  waved  me  farewell,  and  prepared 
to  depart.  "You  may  like  to  note  the  process,"  he  said, 
a  little  patronisingly.  "Oblige  me  by  putting  me  com- 
pletely out  of  your  thoughts;  it  makes  it  easier!  Now 
I  fix  my  own  mind  firmly  on  Jorarn  Street."  He  began 
to  grow  transparent  and  thin ;  he  spoke  in  muffled  accents. 
"Good-bye!  we  shall  meet  at  the  office  to-morrow 
morning." 

Gradually  he  faded  from  my  sight.  The  last  thing  I 
distinguished  was  the  pattern  of  his  necktie.  That 
vanished,  and  from  Nowhere  in  particular  a  voice — a 
mere  thread  of  a  voice — uttered  faintly : 

"Old  fellow,  office  to-morrow !    Ta-ta !" 

VIII 

We  did  not  meet  at  the  office  on  Wednesday  morning. 
Johnson-Williams  never  turned  up.  He  was  ordinarily 
the  very  soul  of  punctuality,  and  the  general  impression 
was  that  he  must  either  have  had  a  severe  accident,  or 
have  been  taken  seriously  ill,  with  something  catching, 
because  an  ordinary  ailment  never  kept  Johnson- Williams 
from  his  big  ledger.  He  had  worked  so  many 
bilious  attacks,  sun-headaches,  neuralgias,  sore  throats, 
rheumatisms  and  catarrhs  into  its  columns  since  he  and 
it  first  became  mutually  acquainted,  that  it  had  become,  in 
my  perverted  imagination,  a  kind  of  Calendar  of  Ailments 
appropriate  to  the  varying  seasons  of  the  year. 

"Unless  he  has  been  left  a  fortune  unexpectedly,"  said 
young  Simpson,  our  Junior  Partner,  in  his  grimly  humor- 
ous way,  "Johnson- Williams  is  certainly  confined  to  his 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  239 

bed.  You  don't  live  very  far  from  him,  Mr.  Pegley."  '(I 
lived  at  the  other  end  of  the  same  parish,  but  that  was 
nothing  to  the  Junior  Partner.)  "You  might  call  in  on  him 
on  your  way  home  and  see  for  yourself  how  the  poor 
fellow  is  getting  on,  if  we  don't  hear  from  him  in  the 
course  of  the  day." 

I  made  no  demur.  I  would  have  gone,  under  any 
circumstances.  I  really  felt  anxious. 

To  Great  Joram  Street,  therefore,  I  directed  my  steps 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  business  day.  I  found  it,  after 
some  inquiry,  to  be  a  murky,  ill-lighted  thoroughfare,  in 
but  not  of  the  neighbourhood  of  Russell  Square.  The 
houses  that  loomed  on  either  side  were  old-fashioned, 
gaunt  and  sooty  of  face,  and  so  much  in  need  of  rebuild- 
ing that  every  vehicle  that  rattled  over  the  ill-set  cobble- 
stones set  them  quaking  to  their  very  foundations. 
Joram  Street  I  found  to  be  prolific  in  cats,  vociferous 
with  children;  unmelodious  by  reason  of  many  organs, 
and  redolent  of  red  herrings.  But  its  respectability  was 
evident.  I  walked  along,  looking  for  number  twenty-six. 
That  was  the  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  with 
a  little  crowd  assembled  about  the  railings.  Most  of 
these  were  staring  up  at  the  unlighted  fourth-floor  win- 
dows ;  the  rest  were  gazing  into  the  area.  A  sweep  and  a 
baked-potato-seller  were  in  the  midst  of  a  heated  argu- 
ment concerning  some  individual  unknown.  As  I 
ascended  the  steps  and  knocked,  the  general  attention,  in 
an  instant,  became  diverted  to  me.  Excited  whispers 
guessed  at  my  identity.  "It's  the  Doctor !"  said  one.  "It's 
the  Coroner !"  growled  another.  A  shock  of  alarm  passed 
through  my  being  at  the  mention  of  the  Doctor  and  the 
Coroner.  I  raised  my  hand  and  plied  the  knocker.  The 
door  was  opened.  The  landlady  appeared  against  a  halo 
of  yellow  gaslight,  as  a  stout,  respectable,  elderly  person. 
She  blinked  as  she  looked  at  me,  and  smoothed  down 
the  greasy  crape- front  of  her  shabby  black  gown. 


240  A  Sailor's  Home 


"Did  you  want  lodgings,  sir?"  she  asked  blandly. 

"No,"  I  returned;  "I  called — I  am  an  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  Johnson-Williams — to  enquire " 

I  became  conscious  of  a  warm  blast  powerfully 
flavoured  with  onions  blowing  down  the  back  of  my 
neck.  I  glanced  round.  The  crowd  had  surged  to  the 
level  of  the  top  door-step,  and  a  burly  butcher  was  drink- 
ing in,  with  hard-breathing,  round-eyed  curiosity,  the 
words  that  fell  from  my  lips.  I  glanced  back  at  the  land- 
lady. Her  hands  were  uplifted,  palms  outward,  her  face 
was  pursed  up  and  working  in  a  most  curious  fashion. 
Her  dress-bodice  was  agitated  with  subterranean  sighs, 
a  tear  slid  down  from  the  corner  of  each  eye  in  another 
minute,  fell  upon  a  projecting  cornice  of  her  figure,  and 
splashed  upon  the  oilcloth  of  the  dingy  hall. 

"Oh,  sir!"  sobbed  the  landlady.  "Oh,  sir!  oh!  That 
ever  I  should  'a'  seen  the  day!" 

"For  Heaven's  sake  let  me  come  in !"  I  cried,  in  great 
agitation,  "away  from  these  people!"  The  butcher 
snorted  indignantly.  "And  tell  me,  as  quickly  and  as 
plainly  as  you  can,  what  has  happenend !" 

By  this  time  I  stood  on  the  hall-mat,  and  the  landlady 
had  shut  the  door,  in  spite  of  a  vain  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  butcher  to  follow  me  inside.  Her  tears  still  trickled. 
She  seemed  too  conscious  of  their  value  as  testimonials 
to  the  softness  of  her  nature,  and  the  worth  of  my  un- 
happy friend,  to  wipe  them  away. 

"Speak!"  I  cried.  "Tell  me— Mr.  Johnson-Wil- 
liams  " 

The  landlady  swallowed  hard.  She  cast  up  her  eyes 
and  hands  again,  and  produced  from  the  innermost  re- 
cesses of  her  being  a  sepulchral  utterance : 

"Gone!" 

"Gone !"  I  repeated. 

"Gone !"  cried  the  landlandy  hysterically ;  "and  him  with 
half  a  peck  of  wholemeal  in  the  cupboard,  and  three 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  241 

pounds  of  American  russets,  and  seven  best  quartern 
browns,  slack-baked  a-purpose,  laid  in  for  the  week,  likin' 
'em  better  stale,  and  cheaper  too.  Cut  down  like  the 
greens  in  the  field,  as  are  on  the  coster's  barrer  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow.  And  me  to  find  him,  poor  young 
lamb,  after  breaking  into  my  own  house  like  a  burglar! 
and  how  that  hussy  of  a  girl  managed  to  bolt  both  the 
doors  after  her  when  she  took  and  offed  it  with  that 
young  man  of  hers,  I  cannot  imagine !" 

She  stopped  for  breath,  and  I  stood  trying  to  realise 
the  full  horror  of  the  catastrophe.  My  unhappy  friend's 
last  act  before  leaving  his  body  had  been  to  secure  the 
house.  In  absolute  loneliness  the  closing  scenes  of  his 
life  had  faltered  to  an  end.  The  poor  girl  in  Wales! 
Who  was  to  tell  her?  I  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the 
blow  that  was  about  to  fall  on  that  young  hopeful  heart. 
I  tried  to  speak,  and  failed  at  first.  Then  I  pointed  up- 
wards, and  managed  to  get  out : 

"Can  I— see ?" 

The  landlady  looked  terribly  confused.  She  groaned 
to  hide  the  confusion,  and  let  fall  another  tear  or  two. 
I  repeated  my  question  more  loudly. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  sir!"  she  said  soothingly,  "and 
none  more  welcome  than  yourself"  (she  did  not  even 
know  my  name)  "as  the  poor  dear  thought  a  deal  of. 
But,  not  to  go  on  deceiving  of  you,  he  ain't  here." 

These  words  flashed  on  my  mental  retina  the  picture 
of  a  hospital  ward,  followed  by  a  view  of  the  interior  of 
a  mortuary,  and  I  interrupted  her  suddenly. 

"Tell  me  where  he  has  been  taken." 

The  landlady's  face  puckered  up,  but  the  tears  did  not 
come  this  time. 

She  formed  with  her  lips  the  words  "Not  beknown." 


242  A  Sailor's  Home 

IX 

She  groaned  again,  and  waggled  her  head  from  side  to 
side. 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  raised  my  voice,  "that  you  do  not 
even  know  the  name  of  the  hospital  to  which  my  poor 
friend  has  been  conveyed?" 

The  landlady  blinked  at  me.  The  landlady  returned, 
"He  was  never  conveyed  to  no  horspittle  as  I  am  aweer 
on." 

"Mortuary,  then,"  I  substituted. 

"Nor  no  mortuary  neither." 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,"  I  burst  out,  "where  is  he?" 

"If  anyone  knows,"  said  the  landlady,  "that  person  is 
Doctor  George!"  She  breathed  hard  as  she  made  this 
admission.  Her  evasive  manner,  her  evident  confusion, 
filled  me  with  suspicion  and  distrust. 

"And  who  is  Doctor  George  ?"  I  demanded. 

"A  medical  gentleman,"  returned  the  landlady,  hesi- 
tatingly, "as  passed  when  I  was  a-rattlin'  at  my  own 
front  door,  an'  obligingly  offered  to  'elp  me  get  inside 
without  callin'  a  policeman.  Whips  over  the  railin's,  he 
does,  an'  climbs  on  the  sill  of  the  parlour  winder  an' 
pushes  back  the  sash-bolt  with  a  penknife.  Then  he 
crawls  in  an'  comes  round  an'  opens  the  door.  'You'd 
a'most  think  I  was  a  perfesshnal  burglar,'  says  'e,  with  a 
pleasant  smile.  'Ho!  never,  sir,'  says  I,  an'  my  little 
Eliza  laughs  at  the  gentleman's  funny  way.  'I  won't 
leave  you  yet,'  says  'e,  'as  somethink  might  'ave  'appened 
wrong,  the  'ouse  bein'  left  so  queerly,  an'  the  'all  door 
bell  stuffed  up.'  An'  we  goes  downstairs,  'im  'an  me  an' 
little  Eliza,  an'  there  ain't  no  sign  of  a  girl,  an*  we  goes 
upstairs  in  the  same  way.  'E  peeps  in  at  the  empty  draw- 
in'-room  an'  then  above,  an'  then  we  comes  to  the  fourth 
floor.  'Locked!'  sez  'e,  rattlin'  Mr.  Johnson-Williams's 
door-handle.  Then  'e  stoops  an'  peeps  through  a  crack. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  243 

'  'E's  lyin'  on  the  sofy  in  there/  sez  'e,  'an'  appearances 
are  suspishus.  I'm  a-goin'  to  break  open  this  door !'  An' 
'e  takes  somethin*  from  a  pocket  at  the  back  of  'is  waist 
an'  breaks  it  in— oh!  deary  dear!  as  if  'e  was  quite  ac- 
customed. But  you're  standin',  sir."  This  was  another 
device  to  gain  a  little  time.  "Please  to  walk  upstairs." 
She  began  to  exude  tears  again,  like  a  slow  still-worm,  as 
she  lighted  a  candle  that  stood  in  a  battered  tin  candle- 
stick on  the  crazy  hall-table.  She  groaned  again  as  she 
beckoned  me  to  follow  her,  and,  panting,  laboured  up  the 
steep  old-fashioned  stairs  as  high  as  the  fourth  floor. 
"You'll  find  all  his  little  things  about,"  she  said,  as  she 
enfolded  the  door-knob  in  her  apron.  "Dear — deary 
me !"  She  opened  the  door.  I  went  in. 

My  poor  friend's  lodging  was  a  good-sized  combined 
bed-and-sitting-room  situated  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  commanding  from  its  two  windows  an  extensive 
prospect  of  chimney-pots,  and  an  angular  slice  of  a  mews 
where  hissing  men  rubbed  down  horses  and  clanked 
buckets  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night.  There  were 
his  few  books  on  a  shelf;  there  was  his  old  blackened 
pipe;  there  was  his  poor,  worn  overcoat  hanging  now 
behind  the  door;  there  was  his  umbrella  standing  in  a 
corner;  and  there  his  Sunday  hat  in  a  blue  band- 
box on  the  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers.  My  chest 
pained  me  as  I  looked  about;  my  eyes  filled  and 
smarted. 

"Which  a  nicer  and  quieter  young  gentleman  I  never 
lodged,"  said  the  landlady,  setting  down  the  candle  on  the 
chest  of  drawers.  "And  when  me  and  Doctor  George 
busted  into  the  room"; — she  pointed  to  the  damaged  door- 
lock — "and  found  him  a-layin'  on  the  sofy" — she  waved 
her  hand  towards  an  ancient  article  of  furniture,  covered 
with  slippery  horsehair,  which  stood  near  the  fireplace — 
"you  might  V  felled  me  to  the  floor  with  a  feather- 
duster,  such  was  the  turn  I  experienced.  And  then  the 


244  A  Sailor's  Home 

doctor,  a-puttin'  his  'and  as  solemn  as  solemn  on  my 
shoulder  and  sayin' " 

"What  did  the  doctor  say?"  I  faltered. 

The  landlady  responded  with  a  Delphic  utterance: 
"Faileroftheartaxiom." 

I  grasped  her  meaning  after  a  few  ineffectual  efforts. 

"Failure  of  the  heart's  action,"  I  repeated.  "And 
what — what  induced  you  to  let  him  take  him — take  it — 

away,  without  leaving  any  address,  or Good 

heavens  !  It  is  monstrous,  monstrous !  You  must  have 
been  out  of  your  senses!  What  will  my  poor  friend's 
family  say  to  it!" 

The  landlady  saw  her  chance  and  grasped  it. 

"Bless  you,  sir!  many  and  many  a  time  has  the  poor 
dear  told  me  he  hadn't  got  a  living  soul  in  the  world,  of 
his  own  blood !  Many  a " 

I  spoke  to  the  woman  sternly. 

"Mr.  Johnson- Williams  had  employers.  Mr.  Johnson- 
Williams  had  friends.  I,  as  one  of  them,  shall  report 
your  disgraceful  conduct  to  the  firm  he  has  served  for  so 
many  years.  They  will  take  action  in  the  matter."  My 
voice  rose.  The  woman  cowered  under  my  anger.  "How 
do  I  know  that  my  friend  is  dead  at  all?"  I  went  on. 
"How  do  I  know  that  he  is  not  the  victim  of  foul  play? 
How  do  I  know  that " 

I  stopped.  The  landlady  had  sunk  upon  the  floor,  a 
jellified  heap  of  conscience-stricken  misery.  She  rocked 
to  and  fro,  and  wept  in  real  earnest. 

"Oh!  my  dear  'eart  alive!  Kind  gentleman,  don't  be 
hard  on  a  widow  woman  as  always  kep'  her  house  respect- 
able, and  sent  her  children  neat  to  school.  Which  wrong 
it  was  to  leave  the  'ouse,  but  the  worrit — and  Doctor 
George — as  I  wish  I'd  never  set  eyes  on — sendin'  me  with 
a  shillin'  to  the  'Man  and  Magpie'  in  Kemmis  Street  close 
by,  for  a  quartern  of  gin  hot,  with  lemon  to  be  drunk  on 
the  premises.  'Which  your  nerves,  Missis  Tichett,'  he 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  245 

say,  '  'ave  'ad  a  shock,  and  unless  you  take  somethink 
to  compose  'em,  I  will  not  answer  for  the  consequences.' 
And  me  a-takin'  it,  consequently,  and  coming  back  to 
find  'em  both  gone,  and  little  Eliza,  says  she,  'I  fetched 
a  cab  for  the  doctor,  mother,  and  he's  took  the  poor  young 
gentleman  away.'  'Where?'  I  says,  and  nothink  can 
that  child  tell  me,  except  that  I'm  to  hear  from  Doctor 
George  in  the  morning.  And  never  a  line !  And  me  that 
worrited,  with  my  'ead  a-spinning  like  little  Johnny's  top. 
And  the  story  leaking  out,  and  the  dear  child  jeered  at 
passin'  the  public-'ouse  on  'is  way  to  school  with  'Who 
stole  the  corpse?'  and  'Who  cheated  the  Coroner?'  and 
me  obliged  to  keep  the  blinds  down  because  of  people 
staring  in  at  the  front  windows  all  day,  and  throwin' 
things  down  the  airy.  Oh,  deary  dear !  And  friends  and 
employers  comin'  to  ask  for  the  young  gentleman,  only  to 
find  him  kidnapped  by  a  body-snatcher  or  worse.  And 
me  a  lost  woman,  if  ever  there  was  one." 

"Go    downstairs,    woman,"    I    commanded,    in    tones 
strangely  stern.    And  Mrs.  Tichett  surged  away. 


I  sat  on  the  hard  bed ;  my  elbows  rested  on  my  knees, 
my  fingers  were  twisted  in  my  hair.  Vainly  I  strove  to 
probe  the  maddening  mystery.  Was  my  poor  friend 
really  dead?  Supposing  the  landlady's  tale  true — and  1 
was  strongly  inclined  to  believe  it — who  was  the  mys- 
terious stranger  who  had  helped  Mrs.  Tichett  to  break 
into  her  own  house,  discovered  (perhaps  with  pre-knowl- 
edge)  the  condition  of  her  unfortunate  lodger,  taken  his 
own  measure  for  getting  rid  of  her,  and  then  eloped  with 
the  body.  I  had  heard  dark  things  hinted  about  the 
Vivisectionists  ere  then.  A  man  had  told  me,  who  had 
had  it  from  another  man,  who  was  said  to  have  had  it 
whispered  in  his  ear  by  a  member  of  the  Detective  Force, 


246  A  Sailor's  Home 

that  in  Berlin,  Paris,  Vienna  and  London,  human  subjects 
are  regularly  kidnapped,  experimented  on,  and  then 
either  released  under  terrible  oaths  of  non-betrayal, 
bribed  into  holding  their  tongues,  or  summarily  put  out 
of  the  way;  that  four-wheeled  cabs  patrol  lonely  streets 
for  other  purposes  than  those  of  obtaining  casual  fares, 
and  that  an  elderly  gentleman,  a  personal  acquaintance 
of  the  original  teller  of  the  story,  had,  while  walking  up 
the  Regent's  Park  Road  in  broad  daylight,  been  hustled 
by  three  men  into  one  of  these  vehicles,  gagged  and  con- 
veyed to  a  certain  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  Maida 
Vale,  where,  after  being  strapped  down  upon  a  table 
covered  with  sheet-lead  and  furnished  with  a  sink  and 
gutter,  he  had  subsequently  undergone  the  mortification 
of  being  ripped  up,  of  having  the  whole  of  his  digestive 
apparatus  extracted  "under  his  very  eyes"  (cocaine  or 
some  other  pain-deadening  drug  having  been  previously 
administered),  of  having  the  essential  organs  put  back 
again  after  liesurely  examination,  and  after  three  weeks 
of  well-tended  imprisonment  this  victim  found  himself, 
after  a  short  period  of  unconsciousness,  lying  on  his 
back  in  the  middle  of  Paddington  Green,  with  a  bank- 
note for  a  thousand  pounds  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  no 
other  trace  of  a  recent  operation  remaining,  than  a  neat 
longitudinal  seam,  which  he  carried  about  with  him  until 
his  dying  day. 

My  mind  revolting  from  these  horrible  suspicions,  I 
began  to  recall  the  good,  simple  ways  of  my  poor  vanished 
friend — to  conjure  up  his  image  as  it  had  appeared  before 
me  that  night  at  Hampton  Wick. 

Great  Heavens!  was  it  possible?  There  he  stood  be- 
fore me,  neatly  defined,  if  somewhat  cloudy,  in  the  un- 
certain light  of  the  guttering,  flaring  candle. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  with  a  shout  of  joy. 

"Less  emotion,  I  beg,  my  dear  Pegley,"  said  the  faint, 
hollow  voice  I  knew  so  well.  "The  disturbance  and 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  247 

agitation  of  your  mind  have  prevented  my  getting  here 
sooner,  and  delay,  under  the  present  circumstances,  is  an 
aggravation  of  the  anxiety  from  which  I  am  just  now 
suffering." 

"I  cannot  express  what  relief  it  is  to  see  you,"  I  said, 
"under  any  circumstances,"  grasping  his  filmy  hand. 
"But  if  you  will  not  think  me  rude,  I  had  rather  you  had 
brought  your  body  with  you — I  had  indeed!" 

The  features  of  Johnson- Williams  twitched.  He 
seemed  to  swallow  once  or  twice  convulsively  before 
utterance  became  possible.  Then  he  said: 

"That  is  just  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about. 
I — in  fact,  I  don't  know  where  it  is." 

"YOU  DON'T  KNOW  WHERE  IT  IS-" 

"Be  calm,  my  dear  Pegley!"  entreated  Johnson-Wil- 
liams. "I  am  perfectly  earnest  in  saying  I  don't  know 
where  my — my  bodily  substance — is  located  at  this 
moment,"  he  gulped.  "It  appears  to  have  been  mislaid 
or — or  stolen."  He  winked  convulsively  and  loosened  his 
wraith  of  a  shirt  collar.  "The  landlady's  story  I  should 
adjudge  to  be  true.  Last  night — when  I  came  home  and 
found  myself  Gone !  the  woman  was  in  strong  hysterics, 
genuinely  induced  by  fear  and  alarm.  This  Doctor 
George!  What  motive  could  that  person  possibly  have 
had,  my  dear  Pegley,  in  taking  me  away?  You  had 
Vivisection  in  your  mind  just  now.  I  hardly  agree  with 
that  supposition."  He  took  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  one  of 
the  rickety  chairs,  and  crossing  his  phantom  legs,  bent 
on  me  the  look  he  always  put  on  when  he  felt  he  was  go- 
ing to  get  the  better  of  me  in  an  argument.  "I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  dead,  you  know ;  and  you  can't  possibly 
vivisect  a  dead  person." 

"I  suppose  not,"  I  agreed  thoughtfully. 

"Therefore,"  said  Johnson-Williams  more  cheerfully, 
"let  us  put  unpleasant  contingencies  out  of  mind  for  the 
present.  I  have  been  all  my  life  a  toiling,  moiling,  in- 


248  A  Sailor's  Home 

dustrious  kind  of  body,  but  now  that  I  have  no  body  to 
toil  and  moil  with,  I  feel  myself  justified  in  taking  a  short 
holiday.  Meanwhile,  my  dear  Pegley,  if  you  would  oblige 
me  by  keeping  your  eyes  open  and  lookrng  about  a  little, 
I  make  no  doubt  that  you  will  obtain  some  clue  to  the 
whereabouts  of  my  corporeal  entity  in  a  very  short  time ; 
in  fact,  I  feel  sure  it  will  ultimately  turn  up,"  said  John- 
son-Williams, quite  light-heartedly.  "A  cautiously- 
worded  advertisement,  now,  short  and  cheap,  in  the 
'Wanted'  column  of  The  Echo  might  bring  about  a  desir- 
able result.  Put  it  something  in  this  way:  'Will  the 
gentleman  who  accidentally' — mustn't  offend  him,  you 
know — 'accidentally  abstracted  a  Body  from  26,  Great  J. 
Street,  on  evening  of  Monday  last,  kindly  communicate 
with  owner  of  same?  Small  reward  will  be  given*— 
it  will  have  to  be  a  small  one,  you  know — 'on  return  un- 
damaged, to  original  address.'  Perhaps  you  will  not  mind 
drawing  the  formula  up,  and  getting  it  inserted.  You  will 
find  six-and-sixpence  inside  the  lining  of  my  Sunday  hat, 
in  the  blue  bandbox  you  see  upon  the  chest  of  drawers." 

"Of  course,"  I  cried,  starting  to  my  feet,  "anything  I 
can  do  shall  be  done!" 

"I  knew  I  might  rely  on  you,  Pegley,"  said  the  phantom 
of  my  friend,  brightening  dimly,  "in  this  perplexing 
dilemma — for  it  is  a  perplexing  dilemma,  isn't  it  ?  When 
I  drifted  in  at  the  office  ventilator  this  morning,  and  saw 
you  all  at  work  and  my  place  empty,  it  struck  me  more 
forcibly  than  ever  what  a  perplexing  dilemma  it  was." 
He  sighed.  "But  as  I  cannot  be  of  much  use  in  my  pres- 
ent condition,  I  must  leave  the  matter  entirely  in  vour 
hands.  I  have  so  much  belief  in  your  intelligence  and 
energy" — this  sounded  a  little  patronizing,  I  thought — 
"that  I  feel  almost  easy  in  doing  so."  To  my  consterna- 
tion, he  began  to  fade  away. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  demanded. 

"Back  to  Wales,"  said  the  receding  voice. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  249 

In  another  minute  he  would  be  out  of  hearing. 

"Stop !"  I  shouted. 

"Hullo !"  returned  Johnson- Williams,  from  quite  a  long 
way  off. 

"What  am  I  to  say  to  the  landlady?  How  am  I  to 
account  for  your  absence  to  Mr.  Simpson?"  I  dragged 
him  back  with  all  the  will-power  I  could  compress  into  a 
single  effort. 

"Hah!"  he  said,  reappearing  suddenly.  "That  is  a 
difficulty.  I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  be  rather  subtle 
my  dear  Pegley,  to  avoid  telling  an  actual  falsehood."  It 
struck  me  forcibly  that  in  shifting  the  burden  of  his 
responsibilities  to  my  shoulders,  he  had  somehow  con- 
fused our  relative  positions.  "You  should  begin,  I 
think,"  he  said,  "by  advising  Mrs.  Tichett  to  keep  her 
own  counsel  for  a  day  or  two.  And  you  might  account 
to  the  people  at  the  office  for  my  non-attendance,  by  say- 
ing that  I  am  not  at  all  myself  just  now — which  is  abso- 
lutely true ;  and  that  I  am  lying  by — I  wish  I  knew  where 
I  was  lying  by — until  I  am  recovered;  and  that  I  hope 
soon  to  be  out  of  the  doctor's  hands — which  I  do  most 
fervently.  Good-bye,  again,  my  dear  fellow."  He  waved 
his  hand,  and  started  for  Merthyr  Tydvil. 

XI 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  the  Heads  of  our  Office  were 
taken  in  by  that  Delphic  message  of  Johnson- Williams. 
His  long  years  of  assiduous  attendance  to  duty,  his  un- 
wavering adherence  io  the  big  ledgers  up  to  the  present 
moment,  stood  him  in  good  stead. 

"How  is  pocrr  old  J.W.  today?"  the  clerks  would  en- 
quire sympathisingly.  "Pretty  bad,  eh?  Thought  so; 
you  look  so  fagged  and  green  about  the  gills.  No  idea 
you  were  such  friends." 

I  had  no  idea  of  it  myself  before  that  period.    But  I 


250  A  Sailor's  Home 


led  a  life  of  wasting  anxiety  upon  the  account  of  Johnson- 
Williams.  To  begin  with,  the  advertisement  in  The  Echo 
had  never  been  answered;  and  a  carking  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility under  which  I  laboured,  robbed  me  of  all 
relish  of  life.  I  continually  found  myself  making  out 
policies  of  insurance  in  which  the  Al  copper-bottomed 
teak-built  schooner  Merthyr  Tydvil,  owned  by  the  firm  of 
Blank  and  Blank,  Great  Joram  Street  Docks,  under  com- 
mand of  Doctor  George,  and  laden  with  crates,  chests  and 
bales  of  Johnson-Williamses  to  the  amount  of  so  many 
thousands,  was  underwritten  for  so  much  in  case  of  loss, 
under  the  protection  of  the  Collision  Clause. 

When  the  working  day  was  done  I  would  snatch  a 
hurried  meal  and  start  upon  the  track  of  Doctor  George. 
I  had  looked  him  up  in  the  Medical  Directory  and  found 
two  of  him;  one  resident  at  Highgate  and  the  other  at 
Kew.  Subsequent  investigations  proved  the  first  to  be 
a  weak-eyed  young  man  who  lived  with  and  under  the 
continual  supervision  of  a  mother  and  aunt  of  undoubted 
respectability  and  severe  appearance ;  while  the  second 
was  a  white-haired  old  gentleman  who  had  long  aban- 
doned practice  and  used  to  be  taken  out  in  a  Bath  chair 
drawn  by  a  rosy-cheeked  gardener,  for  a  daily  airing 
round  the  Gardens.  It  was  plainly  apparent  that  neither 
of  these  could  have  kidnapped  the  body  of  my  friend,  and 
yet  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  keep  them  under  perpetual 
observation. 

"Doctor  George !  A  feigned  name,  of  course !"  I  would 
mutter  as  I  tossed  on  my  sleepless  bed.  "Doctor  George !" 
The  name  seemed  written  on  my  brain  in  letters  of  phos- 
phorus. My  flesh  fell  away,  though  barely  a  fortnight 
had  passed  since  the  abduction  from  Great  Joram  Street ; 
my  features,  like  my  boot-heels,  began  to  show  traces  of 
my  restless  existence.  I  unspeakably  longed  for  an  inter- 
view with  the  astral  being  of  my  unhappy  friend,  yet 
I  forebore  to  summon  him;  such  was  my  dread  of  the 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  251 

look  of  reproach  with  which  he  would  receive  the  confes- 
sion of  my  failure. 

It  struck  me  sometimes  that  he  was  near;  that  he 
wanted  to  see  me.  But,  like  a  coward,  I  resolutely  put 
him  out  of  mind.  It  was  upon  the  second  Sunday  fol- 
lowing my  first  memorable  visit  to  Great  Joram  Street 
(whose  inhabitants  had  left  off  staring  down  the  area  of 
No.  26  and  greeting  Mrs.  Tichett  with  opprobrious  epi- 
thets), that  this  consciousness  of  proximity  came  upon 
me  with  irresistible  force.  I  had  intended  a  journey 
to  Highgate  that  day — which  happened  to  be  a  very  wet 
one ;  and  in  no  very  happy  frame  of  mind,  I  sat  at  break- 
fast dipping  into  the  columns  of  The  Sunday  Intelligence, 
and  a  loud-flavoured  egg,  alternately. 

"THE  CATALEPTIC  CASE  IN  CHELSEA 
No  SIGNS  OF  RETURNING  ANIMATION 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  MEDICAL  MEN/' 

I  read  aloud  and  yawned.    The  papers  had  been  full  of 
that  cataleptic  case  for  two  weeks — more  than  two  weeks  " 
past.     I  turned  to  the  leader.  .    .    . 

"Cases  of  a  similar  description  to  that  which  has 

recently  occurred  in  Briggs  Street,  Chelsea,"  .   .    . 

wrote  the  Editor,  strong  in  the  consciousness  that  the 

office  Encyclopedia,  open  at  the  double  heading  (Cata- 

falco — Catalepsy)  lay  at  his  elbow  .    .    . 

"are  far  from  infrequent  or  uncommon.  Katalepsis, 
in  the  original  Greek,  signifies  a  taking  possession  of 
— a  state  of  more  or  less  complete  insensibility,  with 
absence  of  the  power  of  voluntary  motion  and  statue- 
like  rigidity  of  the  body  and  limbs.  .  .  .  Patients  in 
the  death-like  trance  inseparable  from  the  attack  may 
remain  (as  in  the  present  case)  for  weeks  in  that 


252  A  Sailor's  Home 

condition,  with  circulation  and  respiration  little  af- 
fected. Though  in  the  instance  so  prominently 
brought  before  our  notice,  these  functions  are  said 
to  be  entirely  suspended,  there  is  little  reason  to 
apprehend  any  fatal  termination.  A  few  hours — a 
few  days  or  months  from  the  date  of  our  present 
issue,  Professor  Phineas  J.  Pargeter's  phenomenon 
will  awake  as  bright  as  the  proverbial  button,  thirst- 
ing for  the  sustaining  half-pint  of  British  bitter  and 
urgent  for  the  administration  of  the  solid  and  sus- 
taining steak." 

I  turned  to  the  third  page  in  weary  disgust.  Catalepsy 
cropped  out  there  in  the  form  of  a  detailed  account  of  a 
reporter's  pilgrimage  to  Chelsea,  and  consequent  inter- 
view with  the  unconscious  subject,  who  belonged  (it  ap- 
peared) to  the  sterner  sex.  The  reporter  dished  up  his 
facts  attractively,  seasoning  them  with  bits  of  smart  de- 
tail and  racy  description. 

"A  seething  crowd,"  he  wrote,  "not  entirely  com- 
posed of  the  residents  of  Briggs  Street,  surged  round 
the  door  of  the  shabby  little  public-house  where  the 
Cataleptic  Wonder  has  remained  in  unbroken  slum- 
ber for  a  fortnight  or  more.  I  pushed  my  way 
through  the  barrier  of  humanity  and  entered  the 
bar.  It  was  crowded  with  thirsty  customers — the 
landlord  and  three  shirt-sleeved  assistants  perspired 
freely  in  their  efforts  to  cope  with  the  demands 
made  on  them.  After  having  swallowed  the  half -pint 
of  malt  liquor  which  it  behooved  me  to  order,  I,  in 
the  interests  of  The  Sunday  Intelligence,  proceeded 
to  business.  Mentioning  the  magic  name  before 
which  all  doors  must  open,  I  at  the  courteous  invita- 
tion of  mine  host  of  the  'Pink  Lion/  entered  the 
bar  parlour  and  sat  down.  Professor  Phineas  J.  Par- 
geter  joined  me  in  a  few  minutes.  .  >  >" 
I  finished  my  coffee  at  a  gulp,  and  resting  my  elbows 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  253 

on  the  tablecloth,  read  on  with  a  kind  of  dreary  despera- 
tion. 


XII 

"A  tall,  athletic  form,  clad  in  professional  black, 
a  handsome  face,  an  affable  expansive  manner,  neatly 
kept  white  hands,  which  gracefullly  threaded  the 
masses  of  dark  clustering  locks,  or  waved  in  the  air, 
gracefully  accompanied  the  harmonious  tones  of  a 
deep  baritone  voice  .  .  .  somewhat  tinged  with  an 
American  accent  ...  all  these  characteristics  dis- 
tinguish the  individuality  of  Professor  Pargeter,  late 
occupant  of  a  distinguished  post  in  one  of  the  most 
famous  Transatlantic  Medical  Colleges.  After  a  brief 
yet  profoundly  interesting  account  of  the  peculiar 
features  presented  in  the  case  (all  of  which  will  be 
found  in  detail  in  our  sixth  column)  the  Professor 
courteously  introduced  me  to  his  charge.  (I  may  add 
that  pure  Christian  charity  alone  has  induced  Pro- 
fessor Pargeter  to  consent  to  superintend  the  slum- 
bers of  the  cataleptic,  and  that  the  philanthropic  idea 
of  raising  by  the  small  charge  levied  per  head  on 
visitors,  a  sum  of  money  to  be  ultimately  employed 
for  the  benefit  of  the  sleeper,  emanated  from  his 
large  and  teeming  brain.)" 
"Ha-aah !"  I  yawned,  and  read  on : 

"I  found  the  Cataleptic  Wonder  in  a  small  room 
on  the  second  floor  of  the  'Pink  Lion/  He  reclined 
upon  a  small  bedstead,  about  six  feet  in  length,  and 
three  and  a  half  in  width,  fully  dressed,  with  the 
exception  of  his  coat  and  boots,  which  had  been 
removed,  revealing  a  pair  of  much-darned  brown 
worsted  socks.  He  presented,  at  the  first  glance,  the 
appearance  of  a  sleeping  man ;  but  a  closer  inspection 
revealed  the  unnatural  rigidity  of  the  limbs  and  the 


254  A  Sailor's  Home 

bluish  shades  that  veiled  the  mouth  and  closed  eye- 
lids. ..." 

I  refolded  the  paper  to  get  at  the  top  of  a  fresh  column, 
and,  proping  it  against  the  milk- jug,  read  on: 

"In  his  waking  moments,  the  Cataleptic  Man  of 
Chelsea  cannot,  even  by  his  most  partial  acquain- 
tances, be  considered  a  specimen  of  beauty.  His 
developments  are  meagre,  his  skin  sallow,  his  hair 
possesses  the  reddish  hue  which  is  unflatteringly 
stigmatised  by  many  persons  as  'carroty,'  and  his 
chin  is  decorated  with  a  stubby  growth  of  corres- 
ponding colour,  which  has  made  its  appearance  dur- 
ing his  protracted  slumber.  His  linen  (of  course, 
his  collar  has  been  removed)  boasts  a  pattern  of 
brown  horse-shoes,  his  cravat  is  a  cheerful  mixture 
of  navy  blue  and  orange,  and  the  articles  vulgarly 
known  as  'reach-me-downs'  are  of  loud-patterned 
tweed  ..." 

(The  day  was  growing  foggy.  I  could  hardly  dis- 
tinguish the  column  of  type  before  me)  .  .  . 

"stripes  and  bars  of  greenish  black  and  chocolate 
being  thrown  into  relief  against  a  background  of 
mustard  colour." 
(How  dark  it  was  growing!) 

"His  black  waistcoat  was  garnished  by  a  nickel 
watch-chain  ..." 

The  letters  faded  completely  out  of  view.  I  looked  up. 
The  shade  of  Johnson-Williams  was  standing  between 
the  table  and  the  window.  Had  I  summoned  him  with- 
out knowing  it? — conjured  up  his  image  in  my  mind 
without  an  absolute  effort  of  volition? 

"If  you  only  knew  how  impatiently  I  have  waited  for 
this  moment,"  he  began. 

I  looked  at  him  narrowly.  Surely — surely,  he  was 
strangely  altered  for  the  worse.  His  shape  was  no  longer 
clearly  defined,  but  nebulous  and  indistinct ;  his  hues  and 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  255 

tints  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  have  run  into  one  another; 
his  outlines  were  ragged  and  incomplete.  He  saw  that  I 
noticed  this,  and  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"Is — anything  wrong  ? — I  should  say,  more  wrong  than 
usual?"  I  faltered. 

"An  unforeseen  contingency,  my  dear  Pegley,"  returned 
Johnson-Williams,  "threatens  to  render  my  present 
crucial  position  more  desperate  still.  If  you  had  brought 
me  out  a  little  sooner,  something  might  have  been  done, 
but,"  he  shook  his  head  again,  "I  fear  it  is  now  too 
late." 

"In  Heaven's  name,  speak  plainly !" 

"I  will  endeavour  to  do  so,"  said  my  poor  friend.  "The 
fact  is,  Pegley,  I  am  beginning  to  Go." 

"To  go?" 

"To  wear  out,"  explained  Johnson-Williams,  with 
dreadful  calmness.  "In  point  of  fact,  the — the  friction 
of  this  mundane  atmosphere  is  beginning  to  be  too  much 
for  me.  The  airy,  nebulous  individuality  which  ambitious 
effort  rashly  expelled  from  that  envelope  or  case  of  flesh 
and  blood  (which,  in  my  absence,  was  fraudulently  pur- 
loined by  the  reptile  whom  we  both  abhor)  is  beginning 
to  crumble  away.  The  tender  tail  of  a  hermit-crab 
deprived  of  the  protecting  shell  in  which  its  owner  inviari- 
ably  encases  it,  suffers  injuries  and  abrasions,  may  be 
broken  or  torn  off.  The  chrysalis,  stripped  of  its  protect- 
ing husk,  shrivels  and  dies.  My  case  parallels  with  either 
of  these.  Look!" 

He  held  out  his  right  hand — three  of  its  unsubstantial 
fingers  were  missing!  He  pointed  to  the  left  side  of  his 
head — an  ear  was  wanted  there ! 

"As  the  process  of  Decay  advances,"  he  said  gloomily, 
"and  my  airy  particles  disintegrate  with  greater  rapidity, 
my  dear  Pegley,  I  shall  lose  not  only  fingers  and  ears,  but 
entire  limbs — whole  sections  of  my  anatomy  will  disap- 
pear, in  fact,  then  ..."  His  voice  died  away. 


256  A  Sailor's  Home 

I  glared  at  him.  My  mind  seemed  paralysed  by  this 
new  disaster.  It  was  piling  Pel 

" — ion  upon  Ossa,"  said  Johnson-Williams,  promptly 
filling  up  the  gap  in  my  memory. 

"Has  Miss  .  .  .  ?"  I  choked. 

"I  take  you.  Has  the  attention  of  Miss  Williams- 
Johnson  been  drawn  to  the  fact  that  I  am — considered  as 
a  Specimen — incomplete!"  He  touched  the  place  where 
his  ear  should  have  been,  and  glanced  at  the  remaining 
digits  of  his  right  hand,  sadly.  "It  has,  more  than  once. 
But  on  these  occasions  I  have  diverted  her  from  the  topic 
with  airy  badinage,  and  upon  her  reverting  to  it  later, 
persuaded  her  that  she  had  materialised  me  imperfectly. 
If  anything  could  add  to  my  agony  of  spirit,  it  would  be 
the  knowledge  that  she  is,  at  this  moment  (in  complete 
ignorance  of  the  dreadful  Secret  which  you  and  I,  my 
dear  Pegley,  enjoy  the  dismal  privilege  of  sharing),  em- 
ployed in  making  her  wedding-gown." 

Johnson-Williams  wiped  away  the  semblance  of  a 
tear.  I  had  no  words  wherewith  to  comfort  him. 

XIII 

"She  suspects  nothing,  then?"  I  gasped. 

"Nothing,"  returned  Johnson-Williams.  "It  puzzles 
the  dear  girl  a  little  to  find  me  so  constantly  about  her ; 
she  thinks,  I  know,  that  in  my  joy  at  having  attained  the 
Pitch,  I  am  neglecting  my  business  duties,  in  running 
backwards  and  forwards  between  Merthyr  Tydvil  and 
London  by  any  astral  current  that  happens  to  be  con- 
venient." 

"Could  you  not  ...  ?" 

"I  have  not  the  moral  courage,"  my  friend  replied,  "to 
administer  such  a  terrible  shock.  And  my  cowardice,  and 
her  own  desire  to  act  for  my  welfare  in  all  things,  have 
resulted  in  her  dealing  me,  unconsciously,  a  frightful 
Blow."  He  winced  as  if  he  had  really  had  it. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  257 

"A  blow?"  I  interrogated. 

"The  firm  of  solicitors  in  Llanberis  which  you  may 
remember  was  entrusted  with  the  settlement  of  her  aunt's 
affairs,  and  whose  Senior  Partner  first  communicated  to 
Gwendollen  the  fact  of  a  legacy  having  been  left  her" — 
really,  Johnson-Williams  was  very  prolix — "have  got 
through  the  legal  formalities  inseparable  from  testa- 
mentary dispositions,  with  extraordinary  celerity.  Gwen- 
dollen is  mistress  of  a  little  income  in  her  own  right,  and 
a  moderately-sized  household  of  furniture.  And  I  joy- 
fully regret  to  say,  my  dear  Pegley,"  said  Johnson- Wil- 
liams, "that  she  gave  warning  to  the  coal-merchant  a 
week  ago,  and  will  arrive  in  London  within  the  next  forty- 
eight  hours  or  so  with  the  avowed  intention  of  getting 
married  directly.  Meanwhile,"  continued  the  miserable 
fellow,  "I  am  to  look  out  quiet  respectable  lodgings  for 
a  single  young  lady,  and  give  notice  of  our  intending 
nuptials  to  the  Registrar  of  the  parish  in  which  they  hap- 
pen to  be  situated." 

He  tore  his  shadowy  hair  and  seemed  to  gnash  his 
teeth. 

"Where  am  I?  Who  has  got  me?  Days — weeks  you 
have  been  searching  high  and  low,  I  know ;  I  have  been 
near  you  often  when  you  seemed" — there  was  a  tinge  of 
bitterness  in  his  tone — "to  be  quite  unconscious  of  my 
proximity.  I  have  accompanied  you  in  your  excursions 
North  and  West.  I  have  seen  the  Doctor  George  who 
lives  at  Highgate  and  the  Doctor  George  who  resides  at 
Kew.  Neither  of  these  is  identical  with  the  miscreant 
who  has  my  property  in  his  possession.  That  villain, 
when  about  to  carry  out  his  nefarious  designs,  began  by 
giving  the  landlady  a  name  as  much  unlike  his  own  as 
could  be  invented  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Therefore, 
by  a  very  natural  deduction,  the  man  you  should  have 
been  looking  for  all  this  time,  ought  to  have  been  an  indi- 
vidual whose  name  was  Anything  but  Doctor  George!" 


258  A  Sailor's  Home 

Such  was  his  frenzied  vehemence  that  he  quivered  like 
a  cobweb  in  a  strong  draught.  I  began  to  feel  that  I  had 
not  been  born  for  a  detective. 

"Never  say  die!"  It  was  an  idiotic  remark  to  make, 
but  I  could  not  think  of  any  other. 

"I  should  much  prefer  not  to  do  so,  my  dear  Pegley," 
said  Johnson-Williams,  with  the  ghost  of  his  amenable 
manner.  "But  you  must  admit  that  I  am  in  a  horrible 
situation.  If  within  the  next  few  days  my  corporeal 
tenement  cannot  be  recovered,  I  shall  be  forced  to  com- 
municate the  crudest  of  shocks  to  a  dear,  beautiful  girl." 
His  shadowy  features  quivered,  like  the  reflection  of  a 
face  seen  in  water  over  which  a  breeze  is  passing,  and  he 
wrung  his  filmy  hands.  "And  even  should  her  true 
affection  triumph  over  circumstances,"  he  continued, 
"and  she  was  to  announce  her  willingness  to  marry  the 
mere  unsubstantial  shadow  of  a  husband — what  ordinary 
Registrar  would  consent  to  perform  the  ceremony?  Or 
if  a  Clergyman  gifted  with  the  necessary  amount  of 
imagination  could  be  found,  with  what  truth  could  I 
approach  the  hymeneal  altar  with  the  solemn  declaration 
that  there  is  no  existing  barrier  to  my  union  with 
Gwendollen  ?" 

He  clasped  his  hands  under  his  ghostly  coat-tails,  and 
began  to  fluctuate — I  cannot  say  walk — rapidly  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"If  nothing  comes  to  light,  if  no  trace  of  me  is  dis- 
covered before  the  period  of  my  poor  dear  girl's  arrival, 
perhaps  you  would  not  mind,  my  dear  Pegley,  meeting 
the  Welsh  Express  at  Huston  Road  Station,  No.  3  plat- 
form, Tuesday  morning,  8.30  a.m.,  and  assisting  Gwen- 
dollen to  procure  a  comfortable,  quiet  apartment  in  some 
respectable  lodging-house.  There  is  a  notice  of  Rooms 
To  Let  in  one  of  the  fanlights  over  the  front  door  of  this 
very  house ;  I  saw  it  in  ascending  from  the  level  of  the 
first  floor  to  your  window"  (I  lived  on  the  third  floor). 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  259 

"The  Poet  has  observed  that  when  we  stoop  to  deceive — 
for  our  own  good  or  that  of  others — we  weave  a  Tangled 
Web!"  He  shook  his  faint  head  sorrowfully.  "If  I 
should  still  persist,  up  to  and  after  Gwendollen's  arrival 
upon  the — in  short — the  scene,  in  not  turning  up,  I  must 
trouble  you,  my  dear  Pegley,  to  add  a  few  strands  to  the 
Fabric  already  elaborated.  It  is  desirable  that  I  should, 
in  my  present  deplorable  condition  of  mind — I  cannot 
say  body — avoid  an  interview  with  Gwendollen  at  pres- 
ent— shun  her  very  vicinity,  in  the  fear  of  being  forced 
in  a  moment  of  weakness  to  reveal  my  pitiable  condition. 
Pressure  of  business  at  the  office  would,  I  think,  be  a 
feasible  excuse !  Or  a  natural  delicacy  in  obtruding  my 
presence  upon  her,  previously  to  our  union — I  leave  it  to 
you  to  decide  upon  the  line  it  would  be  best  to  take. 
Divert  her  mind,  my  dear  Pegley,  as  much  as  you  can. 
Prevent  her,  if  possible,  from  thinking  about  me.  Keep 
her,  if  you  can  again,  from  wishing  to  see  me — from 
forming  that  mental  image  of  me  which  will  infallibly 
result  in  my  Development." 

He  had  come  to  me  without  being  summoned  in  this 
way. 

"You  must  have  done  it  unconsciously,"  said  Johnson- 
Williams,  answering  my  thought,  "it  could  not  have 
happened  otherwise."  Then  the  agitation  returned  and 
seized  him,  and  shook  him  in  a  manner  painful  to  witness. 
"My  body,  my  body!"  he  groaned.  "Who  knows  what 
treatment  that — that  villain  may  not  have  subjected  it 
to?  Who  knows  where  it  may  be  lying  at  this  moment? 
A  fortnight  ago  I  rejected  your  theory  of  Vivisection  as 
too  impossible  to  entertain.  To-day  I  find  myself 
struggling  against  the  growing  conviction  that  I  have 
been  Dissected  for  medical  purposes" — I  felt  my  hair 
creep  sympathetically  and  a  cold  chill  run  down  my 
back — "and  that  the  most  important  features  of  my 
organisation  are  at  present  on — on  exhibit,  in  glass  demi- 


260  A  Sailor's  Home 

Johns  of  proof  spirit,  tied  over  the  top  with  oiled  parch- 
ment and  string,  on  the  dusty  shelf  of  an  obscure 
surgery!  The  rest  of  me" — he  turned  a  lack-lustre  eye 
on  mine — "has  most  probably  been  buried  in  a  dust-heap ! 
It — it's  a  dreadfully  choky  idea,  isn't  it?  Hope  I  haven't 
spoiled  your  breakfast.  Good  morning." 

XIV 

The  8.30  Welsh  Express  came  into  Euston  Station 
punctually — that  is,  at  little  more  than  half-past  nine. 
In  the  cold  white  light  of  a  damp  and  cheerless  May 
morning,  the  tousled  heads  of  passengers  who  had  been 
travelling  all  night  were  thrust  out  of  the  windows,  and 
shouts  of  "Porter!"  made  the  glass  roof  echo  again. 

There  were  two  Pullman  cars  on  the  train.  I  did  not 
trouble  about  examining  their  inmates  very  minutely,  but 
walked  on  towards  the  end  of  the  platform,  where  the 
third-class  compartments  were.  I  had  formed  a  picture 
of  Miss  Williams- Johnson  in  my  mind,  as  a  red-cheeked, 
healthy  young  woman  of  the  nursery-governess  type ;  and 
under  the  influence  of  this  pre-conviction,  looked  into  a 
good  many  faces  without  finding  any  to  correspond  with 
my  ideal.  Minutes  passed.  The  carriages  emptied,  the 
platform  cleared,  and  still  I  rambled  vaguely  up  and 
down.  Perhaps  Miss  Williams-Johnson  had  been  de- 
tained— perhaps  she  would  come  by  the  next  train.  But 
at  that  moment,  a  porter  passed  me  shouldering  a  small 
black  trunk.  The  initials  G.  W.  J.  were  painted  on  it  in 
white.  He  dangled  a  bonnet-box  and  a  small  bag  in  his 
unoccupied  hand,  and  was  followed  by  a  young  lady. 

"I  don't  see  the  gentleman,  miss!" 

"He  is  sure  to  be  here,"  said  the  young  lady ;  "please 
look  about  you  again,  and  remember  the  description  I 
gave  you." 

The    porter's    countenance    expanded    into    a    grin. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  261 

"There's  a  many  gents  in  London  as  answers  to  that 
description,"  he  said.  "But  I'll  ask  the  constable  at  the 
turnstile.  ..."  Box  and  all,  he  broke  into  a  run. 

The  young  lady  put  back  a  brown  gauze  veil  from  a 
charming  face  and  looked  about  her  a  little  bewilderedly 
with  a  pair  of  brilliant  blue  eyes.  She  had  evidently  been 
travelling  all  night,  for  she  looked  fatigued  and  slightly 
crumpled,  but  there  was  not  a  speck  of  dust  or  grime  on 
her  neat  little  person.  Those  lovely  eyes  lighted  with 
hope  as  the  returning  bulk  of  the  porter  in  company  with 
a  large  smiling  policeman  bore  down  upon  her. 

The  policeman  was  something  of  a  joker  in  his  way. 

"Jim — this  man  here,  miss,"  he  said  with  assumed 
stolidity,  "tells  me  that  you  were  expecting  a  gent  to 
meet  you  as  'asn't,  so  to  speak,  come  up  to  the  mark. 
Might  I  ask  what  kind  of  looking  individual  he  might  be  ?" 

The  young  lady  blushed  a  little. 

"He  is  tall  and  thin,"  she  said,  "with  auburn  hair  and 
no  mustache  to  speak  of,  and  he  wears  a  brown  bowler 
hat,  and  a  suit  of  checked  tweed — a  yellow  and  chocolate 
pattern,  and  a  blue  tie  with  orange  spots,  and  a  black 
waistcoat,  and  a  watch-chain  which  looks  like  silver,  but 
is  not,"  she  concluded. 

The  policeman  and  the  porter  suppressed  a  mutual 
guffaw. 

"As  Jim  here  said  just  now,"  the  policeman  remarked, 
"we  have  a  good  many  young  gentlemen  in  London  as 
dress  like  that.  You're  from  the  country,  no  doubt  ?" 

"I  am  a  native  of  Wales,"  said  the  young  lady  quietly. 
"And  as  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  was  in  London,  I 
cannot  believe  that  the  gentleman  I  speak  of  would  have 
been  so — so  forgetful,  or  so  unkind,  as  to  break  his 
promise  of  meeting  me !"  Her  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"They're  all  like  that,  miss,  bless  you !"  said  the  police- 
man. "He's  just  dropped  it  clean  out  of  his  mind  and 
gone  with  a  'andsomer  gal,  as  the  song  says.  Not  that  I 


262  A  Sailor's  Home 


believe  she  would  be,  neither."  He  turned  an  admiring 
leer  upon  the  pretty  face  of  Gwendollen,  for,  by  this 
time,  I  was  sure  of  her  identity.  I  stepped  forward  and 
raised  my  hat. 

"Miss  Williams- Johnson,  I  believe  ?" 

"Yes.  You  come  from — from  Llewellyn?"  she  said 
anxiously.  I  bowed  assent. 

"Oh!  where  is  he?  Can  he  be  ill,"  she  cried,  "that  he 
does  not  come  himself  ?  Perhaps  you  are  the  doctor  ?" 

"I  am  only  a  fellow  clerk  in  the  same  office,"  I  replied. 

"Mr.  Pegley !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  he  has  so  often  talked 
of  you!  Pray  tell  me " 

"He  is  not  ill." 

"Thank  Heaven !"  Gwendollen  cried. 

The  policeman  had  retired,  but  the  porter  still  loomed 
in  the  neighborhood  upbearing  his  burden  of  luggage.  I 
procured  a  cab  and  put  Miss  Williams-Johnson  into  it. 

"My  friend  is  unavoidably  prevented  from  appearing," 
I  explained,  as  the  porter  hoisted  Miss  Williams-John- 
son's box  upon  the  top  of  the  vehicle  and  crowded  her 
bandbox  and  bundle  under  the  little  front  seat.  "There- 
fore, he  has  deputed  me  to  meet  and  accompany  you  to 
your  lodgings." 

I  had  engaged  the  vacant  bed  and  sitting  room  imme- 
diately beneath  my  own,  as  Johnson- Williams  had  sug- 
gested. 

"And  I  was  to  give  you  his  love — his  devoted  love" — 
her  bright  eyes  grew  brighter — "and  to  beg  you  not  to 
be  anxious  or  worried  on  his  account,  until  he  is  able  to 
appear  in  person  and  set  all  your  doubts  at  rest.  Mean- 
while"— I  spoke  with  meaning — "he  hopes  that  nothing 
will  happen  to  divert  him  from  his  employment,  which  is 
of  a  most  important  nature.  He  has  neglected  his  busi- 
ness sadly  of  late,  owing  to  other  preoccupations,  the 
nature  of  which,  he  said,  you  would  be  able  to  guess." 
She  nodded.  "So,"  I  went  on,  "if  you  would  think  of  him 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  263 

as  little  as  you  conveniently  can  during  the  interval  he 
would  be  deeply  indebted  to  you." 

"It  will  be  difficult  to  help  thinking  about  him!"  she 
said  tenderly,  "but  I  will  try.  Perhaps  you  could  tell  me 
something  of  the  nature  of  the  business  he  is  engaged  in?" 

"It  involves  a  great  deal  of  research,"  I  said  truthfully ; 
"and  his  whole  future  depends  upon  its  successful  carry- 
ing out.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  not  even  write  until 
you  receive  a  letter  from  my  friend." 

"Is  that  part  of  the  message?"  asked  Gwendollen 
quickly,  and  I  answered: 

"That  is  part  of  the  message." 

xv 

Then  as  the  cab  wobbled  along,  I  began  to  point  out  to 
her  the  different  objects  of  interest  to  be  seen  in  the 
streets  of  the  Metropolis.  It  was  necessary  she  should 
not  be  allowed  to  brood  on  Johnson-Williams  too  much. 
Her  artless  enthusiasm  was  delicious;  her  wonder  and 
delight  at  the  gaudy  omnibuses,  the  smart  carriages,  the 
bright  shops  and  staring  advertisements,  lent  these  things 
a  charm  they  had  never  held  before  in  my  eyes. 

My  landlady  received  her  with  empressement.  I  saw 
the  dingy  door  of  my  lodgings  close  upon  that  charming 
vision  of  youth  and  beauty  with  a  sigh.  She  had  thanked 
me  warmly  at  parting.  I  paid  and  dismissed  the  four- 
wheeler  and  walked  to  the  City,  revolving  in  my  mind 
plans  for  the  sparkling  creature's  entertainment  and 
amusement.  Her  thoughts  must  be  diverted  from  her 
absent  lover ;  she  must  not  be  allowed  to  brood  in  loneli- 
ness. .  .  .  Ah,  I  had  got  it !  I  would  write  to  a  theatrical 
friend — obtain  through  his  mediation  three  upper  circle 
tickets  for  the  Adelphi.  .  .  .  Three,  because  my  land- 
lady must  accompany  us  as  chaperon.  That  our  party 
would  include  an  invisible  fourth  member  in  the  spirit 
of  Johnson- Williams  I  suspected.  But  yet  .  ...  1 


264  A  Sailor's  Home 

The  tickets  arrived  next  morning. 

"Never  been  to  a  theayter  in  all  her  sweet  young  life," 
said  my  landlady,  "and  jumped  for  joy  at  the  bare  thought 
of  it.  'Will  it  be  quite  proper,  though,  Mrs.  Toms?'  shj 
says,  'to  go  with  a  gentleman — and  one  I  know  so  little 
of  ?'  the  artful  dear !"  Mrs.  Toms  evidently  thought — but 
what  did  it  matter  what  Mrs.  Toms  thought?  She  went 
on :  "  'Which  a  more  delicate-minded  gentleman  than  Mr. 
Pegley  never  yet  breathed,'  I  says  to  'er ;  and  the  presence 
of  a  respectable  married  person  as  has  seen  better  days 
in  a  black  silk  gownd  as  turned  like  new,'  I  says,'  'puts 
questions  of  proper  or  not  proper  entirely  by !'  And  she 
jumped  and  clapped  her  hands  like  the  bright  bird  she  is, 
with  'Oh!  Mrs.  Toms,  how  delightful!'  'Which  others 
think  so,  too,  my  lamb,'  I  says,  and  she  blushed  like  a 
damson  rose." 

"You  are  not  to  think,  Mrs.  Toms "  I  began. 

"Bless  your  dear  heart,  I  never  thinks!"  said  Mrs. 
Toms,  with  dreadful  slyness.  "If,"  she  went  on,  "a  bit 
of  supper  arter  the  play  would  be  agreeable,  I'm  sure  my 
parlour  is  at  your  service.  With  a  quart  of  stout  and 
bitter,  and  a  half-crown  lobster,  and  a  dish  of  salad,  and 
a  shape  of  jelly,  and  me  being  present,  the  tongue  of 
scandal  has  no  handle,  as  the  saying  is." 

The  evening  that  ensued  was  a  delightful  one.  I  look 
back  to  it  novr  as  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of  my  common- 
place life.  The  play  we  witnessed,  was  a  celebrated  melo- 
drama with  comic  situations,  and  I  am  not  clear  to 
this  day  what  it  was  all  about.  But  the  tragic  bits  (where 
the  villain  and  the  heroine  are  locked  into  a  lonely  wind- 
mill together,  and  the  bold  girl,  preferring  death  to  his 
loathsome  declarations  of  love,  hurls  herself  upon  the 
sails  and  is  carried,  amidst  deafening  applause,  slowly  to 
the  ground)  made  Gwendollen  tremble  and  clutch  me,  un- 
consciously, with  one  little  white  hand — such  a  dainty 
little  hand  that  I  longed  to  comfort  it  by  holding  it  in  my 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  265 

own! — and  the  funny  scenes  (where  the  sailor  having 
primed  himself  with  Jamaica  rum  to  the  pitch  of  making 
a  proposal  of  marriage,  is  confounded  by  seeing  two 
sweethearts  in  the  place  of  one,  for  instance)  made  her 
laugh  heartily,  and  in  laughing,  appeal  to  me  with  such 
brimming  bright  eyes  and  such  pearly  little  teeth,  to  know 
whether  she  was  right  in  doing  so,  that  I  spent  the  eve- 
ning in  a  foolish  condition  of  ecstacy.  Mrs.  Toms  was 
very  sympathetic  and  cried  at  all  the  love-making  bits, 
finding  out  resemblances  in  the  hero  and  heroine  to 
Gwendollen  (I  kept  calling  her  Gwendollen  in  my  heart) 
and  myself  that  were  agreeably  confusing.  The  lobster 
supper  went  off  splendidly,  and  when  I  mixed  a  glass 
of  gin  and  water  for  Mrs.  Toms  after  a  prescription  com- 
piled for  her  in  those  better  days  by  a  doctor  who  kept 
his  carriage,  and  she  slumbered  after  its  absorption, 
stertorously  in  her  chair,  we  conversed  for  quite  half  an 
hour,  in  whispers,  about  nothing  in  particular.  And 
when  I  gave  her  her  bedroom  candle  she  frankly  gave 
me  that  dear  little  hand  I  had  been  yearning  to  touch  all 
the  evening,  and  the  tattoo  my  heart  beat  against  my 
shirt-front  was  so  loud  that  I  fled  for  fear  she  should 
hear  it! 

"I  have  done  as  he  asked  me,"  I  said,  defiantly  address- 
ing my  bedroom  candle,  as  I  set  it  down  upon  my  chest 
of  drawers.  "I  have  succeeded  in  diverting  her  mind." 

I  took  off  my  boots  tenderly — she  slept  in  the  room 
underneath — and  went  to  bed.  I  dropped  into  slumber 
almost  instantly,  and  not  having  thought  about  Johnson- 
Williams  much  during  the  day,  naturally  dreamed  of  him. 
Dreamed  of  him  vividly,  and  awoke  to  find  his  lambent 
astra  hovering  by  my  bedside.  He  looked  terribly  ragged, 
and  his  outlines  were  more  indistinct  than  ever. 

"I  say,  how  long  is  this  going  to  go  on  ?"  he  said,  the 
moment  our  eyes  met.  "Two  days  of  the  time  gone  and 
no  news  of  my  whereabouts.  It  is  perfectly  sickening !" 


266  A  Sailor's  Home 

"If  you  are  dissatisfied  with  my  efforts,"  I  said,  sitting 
up,  "why  not  enlist  those  of  somebody  else?  I  have  acted 
as  your  unpaid  detective  for  weeks  past ;  I  have  laboured 
in  your  interests  like  a  galley-slave" — I  felt  my  voice 
tremble — "and  you  knock  me  up — in  the  middle  of  the 
night — to  find  fault." 

"You  dreamed  of  me,  my  dear  Pegley,"  said  Johnson- 
Williams  pleadingly. 

"If  I  did  I  didn't  mean  to,"  I  said  brusquely. 

"My  good  friend — my  only  adviser,"  said  the  poor 
fellow,  "I  am  afraid  you  will  find  me  trying  to  your 
patience.  But  consider  my  cruel  situation." 

"You  call  me  your  adviser,"  I  said.  "I  am  afraid  I 
am  but  a  poor  one.  Is  there  nobody  in  your  own  sphere 
— nobody  of  your  own  consistency — whom  you  might 
consult?" 

"Not  a  body — I  should  say,  not  a  single  soul.  You 
don't  know  how  stiff  and  standoffish  they  are — I  mean 
the  people  whom  I  come  across  from  time  to  time.  The 
Fifth  Rounders  won't  speak  to  the  Third  Rounders  and 
the  Third  Rounders  think  it  beneath  them  to  respond  to 
any  advances  from  a  mere  beginner."  He  sighed.  "No ; 
I  haven't  a  ghost  of  a  chance  of  getting  any  help  that 
way,  my  dear  Pegley." 

"No  chance  whatever !"  I  echoed  brutally. 

"They  are  dreadfully  classy — you  can  have  no  idea 
how  classv  they  are,"  rejoined  my  poor  friend  despond- 
ently. "The  brokers  at  Lloyd's  are  contemptuous  and 
overbearing  in  their  way  of  treating  underwriter's  clerks 
and  agents'  assistants.  But  the  Mahatmas  and  Adepts 
and  so  forth  whom  I  occasionally  encounter  are  worse — 
far  worse!  They  consider  me  an  interloper.  If  ever  I 
get  back  into  myself  again,  Pegley,  nothing  shall  induce 
me  to  venture  out  of  me,  even  for  a  short  excursion.  I 
am  going  now!  Pray,  prav  don't  relax  your  efforts  in 
my  behalf!  Keep  Gwendolen's  mind  occupied — be  on 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  267 

the  lookout  for  any  clue  that  may  be  picked  up,  and  ..." 
He  was  nearly  gone,  but  came  back  to  say,  "You  know — 
I  have  explained  to  you  that  I  have  not  dared  to  venture 
into  Gwendolen's  vicinity  since  her  arrival  for  fear,  in  a 
weak  moment,  of  betraying  myself  and  shocking  her. 
How — how  does  she  look?" 

"Very  beautiful !"  I  answered  shortly. 

"How  kind  of  you,  my  dear  Pegley,  to  speak  so  appre- 
ciatively," said  Johnson- Williams,  offering  me  a  phantom 
hand,  which  I  shook  without  heartiness.  "It  does  me 
good  to  hear  it — it  does  indeed.  I  had  had  my  doubts 
whether  she  might  be  fretting — just  a  little — on  account 
of  my  absence." 

"Not  a  bit,"  I  said  heartlessly.  "At  least,  if  she  does 
fret  she  hides  it  very  well.  You  ought  to  have  heard  her 
laugh  to-night.  It  sounded  like  a  mountain  rivulet,  a 
Welsh  mountain  rivulet,  gurgling  over  pebbles." 

"You  have  such  a  happy  knack  of  simile  and  allusion, 
my  dear  fellow !  Like  a  Welsh  mountain  rivulet !"  com- 
mented the  shade  of  Johnson-Williams.  "I  have  often 
wondered  what  it  was  Gwendolen's  laugh  reminded  me 

of,  and  now  I  know,  'a  Welsh  mountain '  "  He  broke 

off  apologetically.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  afraid  you 
are  sleepy.  But  indeed,  indeed,  you  have  done  me  good. 
'A  Welsh  .  .  . '  so  very  appropriate !  My  dear  old  Pegley, 
good-night." 

He  was  gone. 

XVI 

"Which  to  the  theayter  I  should  have  pinned  my  faith 
as  full  of  opportunities  for  a  young  gentleman  to  refer  to 
the  condition  of  his  feelinks  between  the  ax,"  said  Mrs. 
Toms,  "to  say  nothing  of  being  let  'old  her  'and  when 
guns  are  going  off  and  a  dark  drive  'ome  in  a  four-wheel 
cab,  behind  a  nuffy  'orse,  if  ever  I  see  one.  And  yet  if 


268  A  Sailor's  Home 

you  was  to  ast  me  on  my  oath,  'Do  you  see  signs  of  any- 
thing like  comin'  to  the  p'int?' — if  my  lips  were  to 
breathe  their  last  this  minute!  'Yes'  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  say.  We  have  been  to  the  Harcade  in  Covent 
Garden,  and  likewise  the  Tower,  which  with  them  nar- 
row twisty  stone  stairs  full  of  corners,  and  the  thumb- 
blocks  and  screw-jaxes,  and  iron  gentlemen  grinnin* 
'orrid  at  you  with  'alberds  in  their  'ands,  fairly  swarms 
with  opportunities,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  for  saying  so. 
Also  we  have  been  to  the  British  Museum,  where  many 
a  young  couple  with  mutual  hobelisk" — I  believe  Mrs. 
Toms  meant  "object,"  but  became  confused  by  associa- 
tions— "in  view,  has  come  to  an  understandin'.  An'  to 
the  New  Law  Courts  an'  Westminster  Abbey,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  Zoologicum  Gardens — an'  both  of  you 
like  pictur's  ridin'  on  a  nelefunk  as  kep'  twistin*  'is 
little  tail  round  like  a  negg- whisk,  as  the  keeper  said  were 
not  temper,  but  pleasure  in  the  exercise  alone.  More- 
over, we  have  been  to  the  Tppodrom,"  said  Mrs.  Toms, 
who  was  beginning  to  get  her  second  wind  by  this  time ; 
"to  say  nothing  of  Venison  Revived  at  Hearl's  Court, 
when  in  a  small  boat  shootin'  under  one  of  them  dark 
archways,  you  might  'a'  popped  the  question  in  her  year, 
when  duck  year  heads  you  must,  or  'ave  your  brains 
dashed  out  before  your  own  eyes.  But  never  once," 
concluded  Mrs.  Toms  pathetically,  "have  you  snatched 
the  lucky  moment  an'  made  mention  of  the  condition  of 
your  'eart.  It  isn't  nat'ral,  Mr.  Pegley,  and  what's  more, 
she  feels  it,  poor  dear!  .  Else  why  was  she  crying  this 
morning  1" 

"Crying?" 

"Dropping  tears  like  a  cut  cowcumber,"  said  Mrs. 
Toms  emphatically,  "and  therefore,  my  advice  is,  with- 
out delay,  up  and  speak  to  her,  Mr.  Pegley,  like  a  man. 
You're  a  retiring  gentleman,  Mr.  Pegley,  you  don't  know 
your  own  wally,  sir.  If  you  knowed  as  much  as  I  know, 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  269 

and  had  heered  as  much  as  I  have  heerd,"  said  Mrs. 
Toms  with  something  very  nearly  approaching  to  a  wink, 
"you'd  be  bolder,  you  would  indeed.  Take  and  ask  'er 
this  afternoon — take  and  marry  her  as  quick  as  can  be — 
turn  the  two  combination  bed  an'  sittin'  rooms  into  one 
sweet — you  shall  have  'em  at  thirty  shillin's  weekly — 
an'  be  'appy,"  ended  Mrs.  Toms,  adding  the  fininshing 
touch  to  the  alluring  picture  with  one  masterly  sentence. 
Then,  with  a  great  assumption  of  delicacy,  she  retired 
down  the  wooden  hatchway  that  led  to  the  kitchen,  as 
Gwendollen  came  downstairs.  She  was  so  simply  and 
prettily  dressed,  looking  such  a  very  incarnation  of  early 
Summer  on  that  beamy  day,  that  my  treacherous  heart 
jumped  madly,  and  I  turned  quite  giddy  at  the  first 
glance. 

She  had  a  little  navy  serge  gown  on,  from  the  collar  of 
which  her  white  throat  rose  like  a  flower,  and  under  a 
little  black  straw  hat  with  a  bunch  of  coquettish  pink 
moss-rosebuds  in  it,  her  blue  eyes  looked  out,  all  the 
brighter  perhaps  for  the  tears  she  had  been  shedding,  and 
her  golden  brown  locks  wooed  the  sunshine  to  tangle  in 
their  meshes. 

Tip-tap,  came  the  little  patent-leather  shoes  downstairs. 
Gwendollen  had  certainly  spent  several  sovereigns  of  her 
aunt's  legacy  on  prettiments  of  various  kinds,  since  she 
had  come  to  London.  She  smiled  and  gave  me  her 
delicious  hand.  But  she  looked  thoughtful.  As  we 
descended  the  hall  doorsteps  and  turned  into  the  street, 
the  area  gate  clashed,  and  a  worn-out  list  slipper  of 
heroic  dimensions  whizzed  past  my  ear,  and  fell  with  a 
dull  splash  into  a  mud-cart  which  happened  to  be  lum- 
bering by. 

XVII 

"Why  does  Mrs.  Toms  throw  her  old  shoe  after  us?" 
enquired  Gwendollen  innocently. 


270  A  Sailor's  Home 

"It — it's  a  London  custom,"  I  replied  mendaciously. 

"Oh,"  commented  Gwendollen.  Then  we  walked  on 
together  in  silence.  If  there  can  be  a  state  of  mind 
which  is  at  once  a  state  of  misery  and  a  state  of  rapture, 
my  mental  condition  may  be  said  to  have  balanced  equally 
between  those  extremes  that  afternoon.  My  heart  was 
heavy,  and  yet  my  spirits  were  elated;  I  hardly  felt  the 
pavement  underneath  my  boots.  My  companion,  too 
was  fitfully  talkative  and  monosyllabic  by  turns  as  we 
walked  down  Southampton  Row,  turned  into  Holborn, 
and  keeping  our  faces  Westwards  soon  arrived  at  that 
ganglion  of  thoroughfares,  from  which  springs  one  of  the 
leading  business  arteries  of  London — the  Tottenham 
Court  Road.  Here  Gwendollen  paused,  and  looked  up  at 
me  with  enquiring  eyes.  She  wanted  to  know  where  we 
were  going.  The  conviction  that  I  had  exhausted  the 
resources  of  most  of  the  inexpensive  daylight  sights  of 
the  Metropolis,  in  the  effort  to  keep  the  mind  of  my  com- 
panion from  dwelling  on  her  absent  lover,  came  upon  me 
in  a  cold  dash  of  realism.  Only  the  Botanical  Gar- 
dens, the  Chelsea  Hospital,  and  South  Kensington 
Museum  remained.  What  should  I  do,  I  wondered,  when 
no  single  spot  of  any  celebrity  remained  untrodden  ?  But 
I  ran  over  the  list  of  places  to  my  companion,  and  begged 
her  to  decide  upon  our  destination.  It  was  all  the  same 
to  me  where  I  went,  I  asseverated,  and  I  spoke  the  truth. 
Whitechapel  itself  would  have  seemed  as  another 
Arcadia,  had  I  been  privileged  to  wander  through  its  un- 
savoury labyrinths  with  Miss  Williams-Johnson  by  my 
side.  From  which  it  will  plainly  be  inferred  that  I  was 
very  far  gone  indeed. 

"I  should  like  to  go,"  answered  Gwendollen,  a  little 
wistfully,  with  an  involuntary  shrinking  from  the  coarse 
noise  and  bustle  of  the  Tottenham  Court  Road — "I 
should  like  to  go  somewhere  where  there  is  plenty  of 
space,  and  a  little  grass,  and  something  to  sit  down  upon ; 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  271 

and  nothing  in  particuar,"  she  went  on,  "that  one  is 
obilged  to  look  at — because  I  have  seen  so  many  things 
since  I  came  to  London,  that  I  feel  quite  giddy ;  and  be- 
cause"— she  hesitated — "I  have  something  important  to 
say  to  you." 

Something  to  say  to  me!  What  could  it  be?  And 
where — how  to  pitch  upon  a  spot  presenting  all  the  dis- 
tinctive or  indistinctive  peculiarities  preferred  by  my 
companion !  Kensington  Gardens  was  disqualified  by  the 
existence  of  the  Albert  Memorial.  Regent's  Park  would 
be,  I  knew,  at  this  time  of  year,  suffering  from  a  vivid 
eruption  of  potted-out  plants.  Primrose  Hill — the  name 
came  to  me  like  a  revelation.  I  hailed  the  Camden  Town 
^bus  as  it  lumbered  past — I  assisted  Gwendollen  to  the 
top  and  reverently  took  my  place  on  the  garden  seat 
beside  her.  It  was  a  delightful,  agonising,  torturing, 
intoxicating  experience.  .  .  .  And  then  we  got  down 
and  walked,  and  I  was  more  miserably  blissful  than  ever. 
And  when  we  passed  in  at  the  turnstile  in  the  palings, 
and  felt  the  soft  turf  under  our  feet,  and  began  climbing 
the  artistically  oramented  walks  paved  by  an  enlightened 
County  Council,  with  broken  cockleshells  and  cinders — 
together — smiling,  talking,  and  panting — up  the  grassy 
ascent,  my  sensations  became  altogether  indescribable.  If 
I  could  have  seen  a  white  stone  anywhere,  I  would  have 
picked  it  up  and  made  a  mark  on  the  day. 


The  summit  of  Primrose  Hill — a  circular  space  of  grass 
— is  a  little  dented,  like  the  top  of  a  boiled  apple-pudding ; 
a  homely  comestible  which  the  Hill  itself  resembles  in  no 
slight  degree.  Not  a  living  creature  occupied  the  seats 
which  have  been  placed  there  for  the  convenience  of 
Cockney  mountaineers.  We  were  alone — quite  alone. 
Eastwards,  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  reared  against  a  soft 
purplish-dun  background  of  smoke,  beyond  which  the 


272  A  Sailor's  Home 

glittering  towers  of  the  Crystal  Palace  lifted  themselves 
out  of  the  green  foliage  of  the  Sydenham  trees. 

Highgate  towered  to  the  north,  and  the  Hampstead 
Heights  lifted  themselves  into  a  purer  atmosphere.  A 
lion's  roar  boomed  out  from  the  Zoological  Gardens.  If 
the  beast  had  been  free,  and  had  sprung  upon  Gwendollen 
at  that  moment,  I  should  have  engaged  him  single-handed 
with  my  umbrella,  and  performed  prodigies  of  valour 
before  he  ate  me  up. 

"Will  this  do?"  I  asked,  as  we  sat  down  upon  the 
central  bench,  and  looked  about  us — at  least,  Gwendollen 
looked  about  her — I  looked  at  Gwendollen. 

Gwendolen's  answer  was  irrelevant.  "It  does  seem 
strange,"  she  said  slowly,  drawing  patterns  on  the  soft 
ground  with  the  ferrule  of  her  sunshade,  as  she  spoke, 
"Llewellyn's  never  having  come  near  me  all  this  while, 
I  should  have  thought  .  .  . !" 

"Remember,"  I  said,  infusing  a  certain  degree  of  gentle 
remonstrance  into  my  tone,  "that  you  promised  not  to 
think  at  all." 

"I  know,  and  I  have  tried  to  keep  my  promise.  It  has 
been  very  hard  to  do  so — you  can  hardly  realise  how 
hard."  She  breathed  quickly  and  drew  more  patterns. 
"You  meet  him  every  day  at  the  office.  You  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  his  society  and  conversation  each  day — at  the 
office."  Her  tone  sounded  a  little  hard  and  strange  to 
me.  "Of  course,"  she  continued,  "I  have  heard  from 
you  regularly"  (Heaven  forgive  me,  she  had!)  "just 
how  he  seemed,  and  what  he  said.  This  morning,  for 
instance,  you  told  me  that  he  looked " 

"Not  quite  as  complete  as — as  I  could  have  wished,"  I 
stammered.  "He  is  grinding  away  gradually  at  those 
researches  I  told  you  of,  and  has  lost  some  of  his  sub- 
stantiality, it  is  true,  but  he  seems  to  grow  more  light- 
hearted" — I  might  have  said  light-bodied — "every  day." 

She  turned  and  looked  me  straight  in  the  face.     My 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  273 

mendacious  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  the 
blood  rushed  into  my  very  eyeballs,  and  my  heart  dropped 
into  my  boots,  as  she  said  slowly: 

"I  wonder  you  can  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell 
me  such  a  wicked  story!" 

"Story!"  I  stuttered  guiltily. 

"Story!"  cried  Gwendollen,  flushing  royal  red  and 
starting  to  her  feet,  "when  you  know  he  has  not  been  to 
the  office  for  weeks! — that  he  has  even  left  his  lodgings, 
secretly,  and  his  landlady  does  not  even  know  where  he 
has  gone !  I  do  not  blame  you" — her  tone  softened  as 
she  contemplated  the  scarlet  misery  of  my  countenance, 
and  the  crushed  humiliation  of  my  attitude — "I  do  not 
blame  you.  You  have  some  kindly  motive  in  screening 
Llewellyn — you  have  deceived  me,  out  of  sheer  pity — 
wasted  your  time  in  endeavoring  to  stave  off  the  dis- 
covery which  you  knew  to  be  inevitable.  Dear  Mr. 
Pegley,  kind  Mr.  Pegley,  pray  do  not  look  so  wretched, 
pray  do  not  glare  at  me  in  such  a  dreadful  manner!  If 
Llewellyn,"  her  voice  faltered,  "does  not  love  me  any 
more,  it  is  not  your  fault,  it  is" — she  broke  down  and 
began  to  cry — "it  is  Fate.  He — though  you  may  not 
know  it,"  she  sobbed  hysterically,  "has  great  gifts — 
capacities  of  a  wonderful  and  extraordinary  kind.  By 
dint  of  study  and  research  he  has  gone  beyond  himself" 
— it  was  easy  to  see  that  her  mind  was  reverting  to  his 
performances  upon  the  astral  plane — "and  beyond  me. 
I  have  always  known  I  was  not  worthy  of  him,  but  I 
never  dreamed  that  he  would  prove  unworthy  of  him- 
self!" 

XVIII 

Her  eyes  flashed  through  the  tears  that  hung  on  her 
dark  curling  lashes.    She  had  never  looked  prettier. 
"For  days — weeks — I  tried,  as  he  desired,  to  dismiss 


274  A  Sailor's  Home 

him  from  my  mind.    I  scrupulously  kept  from  forming 

even  the  wish  to  see  him  lest "    She  stopped,  but  I, 

with  my  unguessed  knowledge,  filled  in  the  blank.  "Only 
as  he  had  not  exacted  any  promise  from  me  that  I  would 
not  attempt,  indirectly,  to  gain  any  news  of  him" — (fool ! 
fool!  I  had  never  thought  of  blocking  up  that  avenue  of 
discovery) — "other  than  the  intelligence  I  received  from 
you" — her  lip  curled — "I  employed  Mrs.  Toms"  (Oh, 
Toms!  Toms!)  "to  make,  very  quietly  and  carefully, 
enquiries  at  his  lodgings  and  at  the  office,  with  the  result 
that  I  discovered  the  trick  that  had  been  played  me — the 
cruel  trick — three  days  ago !"  She  stamped  her  little  foot 
upon  the  ground,  and  went  on :  "Where  he  is — what  he  is 
doing — I  cannot  tell.  You,  who  are  in  his  confidence" 
(she  drew  herself  up  proudly),  "know,  of  course,  and  I 
do  not  ask  you  to  betray  him.  I  only  command  you — rely 
on  you,  to  give  him  a  message  from  me.  Find  him  out — 
tell  him  that  this  miserable  state  of  things  must  end — 
that  my  love  for  him,  deeply  wounded  by  deception  and 
coldness,  is  fast  bleeding  to  death.  Say  that  I  have  de- 
cided to  put  his  love  for  me  to  a  final  test — that  I  have 
taken  the  one  irrevocable  step,  which  can  never  be  re- 
traced— AND  BOUGHT  THE  LICENCE!" 

"Bought  the  license?"  I  echoed  blankly. 

"I  see  by  your  face,"  cried  Gwendollen,  "that  you 
think  I  have  been  a  rash,  rash  girl"  (why  rash?  I  won- 
dered) ;  "but  the  torturing  suspense — the  doubts — were 
too  much  to  bear,  and  I  resolved  to  stake  all — all  upon 
one  cast!" 

She  was  quite  pale,  and  looked  even  wild.  I  could  not 
see  for  the  life  of  me  why  the  mere  purchase  of  the 
licence  should  be  regarded  by  her  from  such  an  inveter- 
ately  tragic  point  of  view.  But  I  tried  to  look  as  if  I 
understood  everything,  and  partially  succeeded.  She 
continued : 

".You  remember,  a  few  days  ago,  that  I  sent  you  to 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  275 

borrow  a  book — something  suitable  for  Sunday  reading. 
You  sent  me " 

"Pittaker's  Almanac.     I  know." 

"It  was  not  quite  the  kind  of  thing  I  expected,"  went 
on  Gwendollen,  "but  I  looked  in  the  index,  to  see  if  there 
was  anything  interesting,  and  under  the  letter  'M'  I 
found— 

"Marriage,"  I  put  in  gloomily. 

"Marriage,"  repeated  Gwendollen,  suppressing  her 
tendency  to  cry,  as  laboriously  as  I  was  suppressing  the 
almost  irresistible  inclination  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and 
kiss  the  tears  away — "and  all  the  different  ways  of  getting 
married  are  set  down  so  clearly  that  the  most  ignorant 
person  could  hardly  fail  to  understand."  She  dried  her 
brimming  eyes  with  three  inches  of  pocket-handkerchief 
and  went  on,  with  the  calmness  of  despair:  "So  I  found 
out  that  the  easiest  and  quickest  way  of  doing  it  was  to 
buy  a  license,  and  that  to  be  qualified  to  get  one  from 
Doctor's  Commons  you  had  only  to  have  lived  in  a 
parish  for  fifteen  days — and  my  fifteen  days  were  up  on 
Monday  .  .  .  and  I  made  up  my  mind." 

"Did  you  take  Mrs.  Toms  with  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gwendollen,  "but  I  left  her  in  a  cab  outside 
while  I  went  in  to — to  buy  it.  There  were  some  young 
clerks  and  two  nice  old  gentlemen  with  gray  heads — and 
I  told  them  about  Llewellyn  being  unable  to  come  himself, 
and  I  paid  thirty  shillings,  besides  thirteen  and  sixpence 
for  the  stamp.  Doesn't  it  seem  a  dreadful  lot  of  money? 
And  I  went  into  several  little  dark  offices  one  after  an- 
other and  swore  all  sorts  of  things  that  they  told  me  I 
had  got  to  swear ;  and  kissed  a  Testament — such  a  dusty 
one — and  never  knew  what  an  awful,  awful  thing  I  was 
doing,  till "  She  broke  down. 

"Till?  Pray  go  on !"  I  begged.  No  baleful  light  had 
as  yet  dissipated  the  mental  darkness  in  which  I  wan- 
dered. 


276  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Till  just  as  I  was  coming  away !"  almost  shrieked 
Gwendollen. 

"I  met  the  fattest  and  most  fatherly  of  the  two  old 
gentlemen.  .  .  .  Of  course  I  shook  hands  with  him,  in 
saying  good-bye,  and  he  kept  my  hand  in  his  and  patted 
it  as  if  he  was  sorry  for  me,  and  said :  'I  hope  you  may 
never,  never  regret  the  step,  young  lady,  that  you  have 
taken  to-day.'  I  said,  'Oh,  why?'  And  he  said.  ..." 

She  stopped  to  have  her  sob  out,  and  a  great  coil  of  her 
chestnut  hair  freed  itself  from  the  mass  crowned  by  her 
little  hat,  and  fell  in  silken  heaviness  upon  her  slight 
heaving  shoulders. 

"He  said  he  hoped  I  realised  the  gravity  of  my  position. 
Of  course  I  knew  that  if  the  young  gentleman  to  whose 
willingness  to  marry  me  I  had  just  solemnly  testified  did 
not  'come  up  to  time'  (those  were  the  very  words)  within 
twenty-one  days  from  date,  I  should  be  obliged,  under 
penalty  of  fine  and  imprisonment,  to  marry  Somebody 
Else.  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  and  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  did  not  c-care  who  it  was,  but  it  must  be 
Somebody ;  they  were  not  going  to  give  their  permission 
for  nothing — nothing!  When  I  had  paid  t-two  pounds 
three  and  s-six!  ...  I  don't  know  how  I  got  away,  I 
was  frightened  and  dazed — it  was  only  when  I  reached 
home  that  the  full  meaning  of  what  I  had  done  came  upon 
me  like  a  thunderbolt.  It  has  been  growing  clearer  and 
more  plain  every  hour.  .  .  .  See!  there  is  the  awful, 
awful  thing!"  She  pulled  the  stamped  and  folded  official 
paper  out  of  her  little  pocket  and  threw  it  on  the  ground. 
"I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  it ;  it  reminds  me  of  the  dreadful 
risk  I  run.  The  risk  of  being  married  to  some  strange, 
dreadful  Somebody,  if  Llewellyn — after  all  the  years  we 
have  been  engaged — doesn't  love  me  w-well  enough  to 
come  and  do  it  himself!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  I  rose  and  picked  up 
the  marriage  licence,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her  and 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  277 

thinking.  There  are  people  who  consider  me  an  honest, 
kindly  sort  of  fellow,  to-day.  These  laugh  if  I  tell  them 
that  I  once  came  very  near  being  a  villain  and  a  scoundrel. 
Yet  it  is  true.  I  felt  not  a  spark  of  pity  as  I  watched  the 
girlish  creature  sorrowing  there.  I  triumphed  in  my 
friend's  misfortune — the  misfortune  which  was  now  my 
opportunity.  Love  comes  upon  us  all  in  different  guises ; 
sometimes  as  a  jester,  sometimes  as  a  beggar,  sometimes 
as  an  angel  of  light,  sometimes  as  a  Devil.  Love  had 
come  to  me  with  the  crape  and  jemmy  of  a  burglar — had 
cracked  the  crib  of  my  integrity  and  stolen  away  the 
jewels  of  honesty,  true  faith  and  friendship.  Because, 
adoring  Gwendolen  as  I  did,  it  had  occurred  to  me  that 
the  harmless  little  joke  of  the  lively  old  gentleman  at 
Doctors'  Commons,  which  the  innocent  girl  had  taken 
seriously — might  be  turned  to  account — to  my  account! 
We  don't  generally  believe  stories  about  Possession.  .  .  . 
But  upon  my  honor,  so  nearly  forfeited ! — upon  my  soul, 
so  nearly  stained  with  a  wicked  deed! — some  strange 
Power  forced  me  to  act,  to  speak,  to  look,  as  I  would  not 
of  my  own  conscious  volition  have  acted  or  spoken  or 
looked.  I  touched  Gwendollen  on  the  shoulder,  and  she 
lifted  her  head — that  dear  head!  I  met  her  eyes  with 
mine,  and  a  feeling  I  had  never  before  experienced  awoke 
in  me  as  I  plunged  my  glance  into  those  clear  blue  depths. 

"You  will  take  him  my  message  ?"  Gwendollen  begged. 
"You  will  tell  him  that  if  I  acted  foolishly  it  was  out  of 
my — my  love  for  him.  And  that  he  must — but  he  will, 
he  will ! — come  and  save  me !" 

"I  will  tell  him !"  That  cold  metallic  voice !  How  un- 
like mine ! 

"Thank  you! — oh,  thank  you!  And  he  will  come. 
You  believe  so?" 

"I  do  not  believe  it,  Miss  Williams-Johnson !" 


278  A  Sailor's  Home 

XIX 

She  gasped  and  swayed  backwards.  She  was  not  going 
to  faint,  she  said,  as  I  threw  my  arm  about  her  in  sup- 
port. What  treacherous  joy  it  gave  me !  Only  rich  girls 
in  novels  fainted,  and  she  was  not  one  of  them.  But 
she  was  quite  well  now,  and  I  must  explain  to  her  can- 
didly and  plainly  the  meaning  of  my  cruel  words. 

The  exigencies  of  the  past  ten  weeks  had  developed  in 
me  a  talent  for  fiction  which,  until  recently,  had  lain 
dormant  in  my  system.  The  consciousness  of  unveracity 
no  longer  was  painful  to  me :  I  had  begun  almost  to  take 
a  pride  in  lying,  and  lying  well.  But  my  newly-gained 
experience  did  not  account  for  the  fiendish  facility  with 
which  I  unrolled  my  web  of  falsehood  under  the  eyes  of 
the,  poor  girl — turned  it  this  way  and  that  like  a  skilled 
shopman,  and  persuaded  her,  with  glib  readiness,  that  the 
article  was  geneuine.  No!  my  theory,  that  I  was  tem- 
porarily possessed  then  and  afterwards  has  never  been 
shaken — never  will  be,  while  life  remains! 

"You  ask  for  an  explanation,"  said  the  voice  which  was, 
and  which  was  not  mine.  "You  wish  for  candour.  Let 
the  candour  be  on  both  sides.  You  spoke  just  now  of 
Llewellyn's  peculiar  pursuits — of  a  wonderful  and 
extraordinary  faculty  which,  by  laborious  efforts,  he  has 
attained.  What  those  pursuits  are,  the  nature  of  that 
faculty,  are  known  to  me  as  well  as  to  yourself.  On  the 
same  evening  on  which  he  visited  you  at  Merthyr  Tydvil, 
to  report  his  wonderful  discovery"  (she  started)  "he  paid 
me  a  visit — literally  a  flying  visit — on  the  way  home. 
That  I  have  been  in  his  confidence  to  a  certain  extent 
during  these  past  weeks,  you  are  aware.  You  know 
now  how  entirely  he  has  placed  his  trust  in  me.  I  could 
wish,"  I  faltered  dramatically,  "that  he  had  not  made  me 
the  recipient  of  his  secrets.  Now " 

"Go  on!"  said  Gwendollen  breathlessly. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  279 

And  I,  or  rather  It,  went  on: 

"It  is  true  that  my  friend  has  not  been  near  the  office 
for  a  considerable  time.  It  is  true  that  he  has  secretly 
abandoned  his  lodgings.  I  will  tell  you  why  when  you 
have  answered  me  a  question  or  two.  To  begin  with, 
when  did  your  last  interview  take  place — at  Merthyr 
Tydvil?" 

Gwendollen  considered  a  moment.  "Some  twenty-four 
hours  before  I  left.  I  had  been  seeing  a  great  deal  of  him 
up  till  then — so  much  that  I  feared,  in  his  enjoyment  of 
the  exercise  of  his  new  power  of  conveying  himself 
wherever  he  liked,  he  was  neglecting  his  work  at  the 
office." 

"Did  you,"  I  continued  gravely,  "make  any  announce- 
ment to  him  of  any  decision  you  had  formed — any  step 
you  were  determined  to  take — at  that  last  interview?" 

"I  told  him  about  my  having  quite  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  to  London"  (she  blushed)  "and  get  married 
immediately." 

"Did  he — forgive  me! — did  he  seem  delighted  or  dis- 
turbed by  the  news?  Did  he  endeavor  to  persuade  you 
to  remain  in  Wales,  for  instance,  and  hint  that  the  wed- 
ding might  be  put  off  a  little  longer?" 

"He  certainly  did!     Oh,  Mr.  Pegley!" 

"Keep  calm,  I  beg  you.  Another  question.  Did  any- 
thing strike  you  as  strange  in  his  appearance?" 

"Yes ;  he  seemed — I  cannot  explain !"  She  shook  her 
head  and  knitted  her  lovely  brows.  "He  seemed — not 
altogether  there ;  for  instance,  I  questioned  him  about — 
about  the  strangeness,  but  he  explained  everything  quite 
easily."  She  started  to  her  feet.  "Was  he  deceiving 
me?"  she  cried.  "Was  he " 

"Sit  down  again."  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  hers,  and  she 
obeyed.  "He  was  deceiving  you — in  a  measure." 

"Yes;  and  where — where  is  he  now?  After  all  this 
deception,  all  this  falsity,  tell  me  plainly,  Mr.  Pegley!" 


280  A  Sailor's  Home 

"He  is  in  India."  (What  was  I  going  to  say 
next!) 

"!N  INDIA!" 

"I  should  have  said  Thibet."  What  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  diabolical  put  Thibet  into  my  mouth  ? 

"Thibet!" 

"That  is  his  spiritual  body.  His  earthly  body  is  at 
present  traversing  the  Suez  Canal  in  the  hold  of  a  Cal- 
cutta-bound merchant-steamer." 

The  unhappy  girl  stared  at  me  blankly.  But  I,  or  It, 
was  not  in  the  least  abashed.  I  could  have  gone  on 
slowly,  clearly,  smoothly,  distilling  mendacity  after  men- 
dacity, without  the  slightest  sense  of  fatigue  for  hours 
and  hours. 

"But  how?  I  do  not  understand.  He  could  not  pos- 
sibly afford  to  pay  the  passage,  even  if " 

I  smiled  coldly. 

"He  has  no  passage  to  pay.  He  has  projected  his 
animating  essence  on  before,  by  means  of  his  geographical 
knowledge — which,  as  you  know,  is  very  considerable. 
From  England  to  Calcutta,  from  Calcutta  to  Benares, 
from  Benares  to  the  Sikkim  Himalaya"  (what  had  I  ever 
heard  about  the  Sikkim  Himalaya?),  "from  thence  to 
Central  Thibet.  While  his  inferior  earthly  envelope"  (I 
was  quoting  his  own  words)  "travels,  packed  in  a  crate 
or  box  (I  believe  a  box),  simply  and  cheaply,  as  cargo." 
I  anticipated  a  question  here,  so  went  on  to  explain,  with 
a  glib  smoothness  that  astonished  me.  "You  know  he 
has  been  connected  with  a  firm  of  underwriters  for  years ; 
you  are  aware  that  he  must  have  acquaintances  in  the 
shipping  line ;  that  one  of  these,  in  return  for  some  slight 
service,  could  have  obliged  him  by  forwarding,  free  of 
expense,  a  crate  or  packing-case — containing  supposedly, 
gardening  tools  and  flower  bulbs  (at  once  accounting  for 
the  length  of  it,  and  the  inscription  'With  Care.  Perish- 
able !'  nailed  on  the  lid) — to  a  firm  of  luggage  agents  in 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  281 

Calcutta — to  be  left  till  called  for — is  hardly  inconceiv- 
able." 

It  was  inconceivable,  but  did  she  not  guess  that.  My 
astonishing  fecundity  of  invention,  my  cool  self-posses- 
sion were  irresistible.  I  had  the  marriage  licence  in  one 
hand,  having  enforced  points  in  my  explanation,  by  tap- 
ping it  on  the  palm  of  the  other.  She  put  out  her  poor 
little  trembling  fingers,  and  drew  it  from  mine  as  she 
said,  with  forced  calmness : 

"And  when  Llewellyn  arrives  at  the  Calcutta  agents', 
how  is  he  going  to  claim  himself  ?" 

I  lied  again,  before  I  could  stop  myself.  I  made  a  new 
link  in  the  chain  of  forged  evidence  which  I  was  winding 
round  my  victim  at  a  blow. 

"She  will  arrange  all  that!" 

"SHE!  Ah!"  cried  Gwendollen,  springing  to  her  feet 
with  blazing  cheeks,  and  eyes  that  darted  blue  lightning. 
"At  last  I  begin  to  understand!" 

That  was  a  good  thing,  because  I  did  not!  I  was  a 
passive  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  cunning  inventive 
demon  that  had  got  hold  of  me. 

"Who  is  she  ?"  She  stamped  her  pretty  little  foot  upon 
the  ground. 

"She  is  the  daughter  of  a  Rajah — a  Thibetan  Rajah. 
A  Buddhist  priestess,  if  I  understood  my  friend  aright." 

"And  how — where  did  they  meet?  You  shall  tell 
me !"  Miss  Williams-Johnson  commanded  imperiously. 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "it  has  always  been  the  dream  of 
Llewellyn's  life  to  travel.  In  the  first  blush  of  his  great 
discovery — when  he  found  that  he  had  really  attained  the 
Pitch — he  spent  all  the  time  that  he  did  not  devote  to  you 
in  visiting  foreign  countries." 

"He  never  told  me  so !" 

"He  would  not.  He  might  have  feared  your  being 
jealous." 

"Jealous!" 


282  A  Sailor's  Home 

XX 

"Jealous!"  Gwendollen  repeated  scornfully. 

"Or  over-anxious  for  his  safety.  Well,  of  all  the  coun- 
tries he  visited,  Thibet,  as  the  home  of  Theosophic 
Buddhism,  attracted  him  the  most.  Then,  as  he  became 
drawn  into  the  vortex  of  attraction  created  by  Sankara- 
charita — Princess  Sankaracharita  is  her  name " 

"How  hideous !" 

"I  fear  his  fidelity  to  you  wavered,  if  it  did  not  alto- 
gether go  by  the  board.  Even  when  impelled  by  self-re- 
proach, remorseful  regard,  he  sought  your  society,  you 
must  remember  that  you  could  never  develop  him 
completely." 

"It  is  true." 

"Because  his  spirit — a  good  deal  of  it  at  least — still 
remained  with  Sankaracharita.  They  are  in  absolute 
sympathy,  I  believe,  and  she  is  an  extremely  gifted 
woman  though  she  has  only  been  a  votary  of  Buddha 
for  two  hundred  years.  During  a  hundred  and  fifty  of 
them,  he  tells  me,  she  has  sat  upon  a  palm-leaf  mat, 
revolving  her  thumbs  slowly  one  over  the  other,  and 
reflecting  on  the  Imponderability  of  Negative  Reality." 

"He  has  fallen  in  love?"  Gwendollen  uttered  slowly, 
"Llewellyn  has  fallen  in  love  with  a  woman  who  has 
lived  for  two  hundred  years!  Why,  she  must  be  a 
mummy!" 

"Buddhists  lead  a  very  calm  existence,"  I  responded, 
"and  consequently  live  to  incredible  ages.  When  you 
have  sat  upon  a  palm-leaf  mat  for  ninety  years,  you  may 
just  as  well  go  on  doing  it  for  two  hundred.  And  it  is 
not  the  beauty  of  her  body,  but  of  her  soul,  her  fifth 
principle,  which  fascinates  Llewellyn.  He  tells  me  that 
she  possesses  a  finer  fifth  principle  than  any  woman  he 
has  ever  met." 

"He  has  not  met  very  many,"  said  Gwendollen,  with 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  283 

bitter  contempt.  "Let  him  stop  with  Sankaracharita  if 
he  chooses — let  him  sit  on  a  palm-leaf  mat  and  turn  into 
a  mummy,  too,  if  he  likes — I  shall  not  trouble  my  head, 
or  my  heart,  about  him  any  more !  I  will  never  think  of 
him  or  wish  to  see  him  any  more !  I  will  forget  him  as 
completely  as  he  has  asked  me  to  forget  him!  I  know 
why  he  did  that  now!  It  was  to  prevent  himself  from 
being  drawn  out  of  the  'vortex'  of  Princess  Whatever- 
you-may-like-to-call-her's  attractions — ha,  ha,  ha!"  She 
laughed  hysterically.  "When  I  go  home,  Mr.  Pegley,  I 
will  burn  all  his  letters,  every  one,  with  all  the  presents 
I  ever  received  from  him."  (I  guessed  that  there  were 
not  many,  as  the  poor  fellow  whom  I  had  so  cruelly 
misrepresented  had  never  had  any  money  to  spend.) 
"And  as  for  this " 

I  snatched  the  marriage  licence  from  the  hands  that 
were  about  to  rend  it  into  fragments. 

"Stop!"  I  said  sepulchrally.  "Recall  yourself!  Re- 
member the  danger  to  which  you  are  exposed — remember 
the  warning  given  you  by  the  old  gentleman  at  Doctors' 
Commons!  Do  you  wish  to  be  fined? — imprisoned  for 
life  in  Holloway  Gaol?  I  wish  to  be  a  friend  to  you, 
Miss  Williams-Johnson — again  I  threw  a  hypocritical 
quiver  of  emotion  into  my  accents — "and  a  friend  must 
speak  plainly  If  I  had  done  so  before — consented  to 
betray  the  confidence  of  the  unhappy  man  who  once" — 
I  drove  in  the  nail  with  a  repetition — "once  loved  you, 
I  might  have  saved  you  from  what  is  now  inevitable. 
You  have  bought  a  marriage  licence,  and  you  must  marry 
— marry  within  twenty-one — no  nineteen  days,  for  three 
are  gone,  never  to  return.  The  question  is,  WHO  ?" 

She  regarded  me  with  eyes  full  of  inexpressible  dread. 
Her  pale  lips  moved,  repeating: 

"Who?" 

I,  or  the  diabolical  creature  that  had  got  hold  of  me, 
pretended  to  consider. 


284  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Who !  Is  there  any  person  in  Wales  who  has  at  any 
time  professed  regard — more  than  regard — you  under- 
stand?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Nobody  whom  I  could  think  of  for  a  moment.  Not 
one"  (there  had  been  more  than  one,  then)  "whom  I 
could  ever  look  upon  as — as  a  husband !" 

"Unfortunately,"  I  sighed,  "you  cannot,  in  your  pres- 
ent position,  afford  to  pick  and  choose.  There  is  so 
little  time"  (she  shuddered),  "that  the  most  indispensable 
qualification,  in  the  person  you  ultimately  decide  upon, 
is  that  he  should  be  a  bachelor.  Are  they  all  bachelors  ?" 

"All  except  one,"  replied  Gwendollen  unwillingly,  "an 
elderly  widower,  with  a  family.  He  is  an  oil-merchant 
in  a  very  extensive  way  of  business." 

"An  oil-merchant!"  I  shook  my  head.  "It  is  an 
inflammable  calling.  I  have  known  a  good  many  oil- 
merchants  who  systematically  ill-treated  their  wives.  As 
to  the  others?" 

"There  are  only  two  others,"  answered  Gwendollen. 
"One  of  them  is  the  chief  engineer  of  a  Mining  Company. 
He  is  paid  quite  a  large  salary,  and  is  a  very  clever  young 
man,  having  invented  a  pneumatic  shaft-borer  out  of  his 
own  head,  but " 

"Oh,  come !"  I  said,  in  a  tone  of  fastidious  disgust,  "it 
will  never  do  for  you  to  throw  yourself  away  on  a  Borer." 

"I  felt  that  myself,"  replied  Miss  Williams-Johnson 
modestly.  "The  last " 

"Number  Three?" 

"Number  Three  is  a  young  Dissenting  minister;  a 
Baptist — I  believe  he  is  very  eloquent  as  a  preacher,  and 
very  good;  but,  oh!"  she  winced,  "he  has  such  damp, 
red  hands,  and  he  combs  his  hair  into  his  neck,  and  uses 
a  great  deal  of  pomatum  or  something  to  make  it  shiny." 
"And  were  you  to  marry  him,  he  would  probably  dip 
you  into  his  chapel-tank!"  I  suggested. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  285 

"I  would  never  submit  to  that,"  cried  Gwendollen 
emphatically.  Then  her  tone  changed:  "Dear  Mr. 
Pegley,"  she  said  sadly,  "why  do  you  take  so  much 
trouble  about  a  poor  deserted  girl?  Let  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  take  away  all  my  money — let  him  shut  me 
up  in  the  Tower  of  London,  if  he  likes,  for  all  the  re- 
maining years  I  have  got  to  live — what  does  it  matter 
after  all?" 

I  moved  closer  to  her.  She  did  not  draw  away — she 
was  too  near  the  end  of  the  seat  for  that;  I  took  her 
hand  gently;  she  let  the  pretty  little  fingers  remain  in 
mine. 

"It  matters  a  great  deal  to  me,"  I  said,  and  here  I 
spoke  nothing  but  the  truth.  "Dear  Miss  Williams-John- 
son— dearest  Gwendollen;  if  you  would  give  me  the 
precious  right  to  protect  and  care  for  you  always — if  you 
would  bestow  on  me  the  invaluable  treasure  of  your  love, 
priceless  boons  both,  which  Another  has  rejected,  you 
would  make  me  the  happiest  man  in  London — in  the 
whole  world !" 

She  turned  red  and  pale,  and  at  last,  softly  drew  away 
her  dear  hand  and  raised  her  candid  eyes  to  mine. 

"You  are  very  noble,  very  generous,"  she  said,  and  I 
winced,  knowing  what  a  mean  young  hound  I  was ;  even 
as  I  wince  to-day,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  twenty 
years :  "Dear,  kind  Mr.  Pegley,  I  trust  you  with  all  my 
heart ;  I  believe  you  to  be  a  sincere,  disinterested,  honour- 
able man."  (Stab  after  stab,  making  the  moribund  carcass 
of  my  conscience  quiver !)  "And  so  it  is  my  duty  to  be 
perfectly  sincere,  perfectly  candid  with  you.  I  have — 
considerable  regard  for  you,  but  I — I  can  never  love  you 
— at  least  I  think  not — as  I  loved  him!"  She  choked  a 
little  over  the  allusion.  "Would  it — oh,  pray,  pray  re- 
flect ! — would  it  not  be  a  dreadful  thing  to  marry  a  girl — 
to  have  a  wife  who " 


286  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Who  is  the  sweetest,  the  dearest,  the  prettiest  girl 
under  the  sun  ?  No !  A  thousand  times,  NO  !" 

I  kissed  her,  Usurper  that  I  was!  I  put  my  arm 
around  her  slight,  submissive  waist,  and  after  the  first 
recoil,  she  let  it  rest  there  peacefully.  We  sat  a  little 
while  longer  on  the  top  of  Primrose  Hill,  and  then  went 
home — on  the  top  of  the  omnibus — an  engaged  couple. 
We  had  tea  together  that  evening  in  Mrs.  Toms'  sitting- 
room,  and  under  the  auspices  of  that  maternal  person. 
And  I  felt  no  remorse ;  I  gloried  in  my  treachery.  And 
that  night,  when  I  retired  to  bed,  I  summoned  the  shade 
of  Johnson- Williams,  and  broke  the  news  to  him. 

XXI 

"You  will  excuse  me,  my  dear  Pegley,  but  I  cannot— 
I  can  not  believe  it !" 

Sitting  on  my  bolster,  with  my  elbows  on  my  knees, 
and  my  chin  propped  between  my  fists,  I  looked  in  his 
face — as  much  as  was  left  of  it — and  laughed  defiantly. 

"Wait!" 

His  ragged  outlines  wavered ;  he  turned  on  me  the  faint 
lamps  of  his  astral  eyes  and  shook  his  shadowy  head. 

"I  have  studied  your  character  closely  during  the  years 
that  we  have  been  associated,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying  that  you  are  incapable  of  meanness 
or  treachery.  You  have  told  Gwendollen — for  what 
reason  I  cannot  imagine — a  most  extraordinary  story! 
You  have  asked  her  to  consider  yourself  in  the  light  of 
her  future  husband,  and  obtained  her  partial  consent. 
Now  you  deliberately  summon  me  and  assure  me  that  you 
are  going  to  make  her  your  wife,  and  defy  me,  as  a 
mere  wandering,  bodiless  Third  Principle,  to  interfere. 
Had  I  less  faith  in  you,  Pegley,  such  an  announcement 
would  drive  me  to  the  last  pitch  of  desperation.  But  I 
see  through  your  pretence.  I  know  you  better  than  you 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  287 

know  yourself.  Look  the  thing  in  the  face.  Suppose 
you  were  travelling  in  the  desert  and  met  a  wandering 
Arab  whose  only  sustenance  was  a  single  date  and  a  drop 
of  water,  you  woulddn't — you  couldn't  deprive  the  man 
of  what  meant  a  few  more  hours  of  life  to  him?  I  am 
like  that  Arab,  my  dear  fellow,  and  Gwendollen  is  my 
date — my  drop  of  water!  If  you  willl  look  at  the  situa- 
tion from  my  point  of  view  you  will  agree  with  me  that 
to  take  advantage  of  my  helpless  condition  to  rob  me  of 
her  would  be  a  mean  thing,  a  base  thing,  a  despicable 
thing,  and  that  nothing  could  possibly  induce  you  to 
doit!" 

"Yet  I  am  going  to  do  it !" 

"Take  time,  my  dear  fellow,"  pleaded  my  unhappy 
friend.  "You  know  my  favourite  recipe  for  composing 
the  mind.  Run  over  the  Merchant  Shipping  List,  or  the 
clauses  of  the  Tonnage  Act,  before  you  make  a  positive 
reply,  for  my  sake !" 

I  emphasized  my  words,  spoken  very  calmly  and  dis- 
tinctly, with  beats  of  my  right  forefinger  upon  my  left 
palm. 

"I  tell  you  again,  my  mind  is  made  up.  I  have  be- 
haved like  a  villain — I  mean  to  behave  like  a  blackguard 
before  I  have  done.  I  have  slandered  you — purposely. 
I  have  deceived  Miss  Williams-Johnson — deliberately. 
To-morrow  I  mean  to  have  your  name  erased  from  the 
marriage  licence  and  my  own  put  in  its  place.  And  before 
another  fortnight  is  over,  Gwendollen  will  be  my  wife." 

He  flickered  with  passionate  agitation. 

"She  shall  not !  I  will  go  to  her — this  instant.  I  will 
warn  her — tell  her  all!" 

I  sneered  superior. 

"Go  if  you  like,  but  your  efforts  to  interview  her  will 
be  in  vain.  She  has  dismissed  you  from  her  mind; 
burned  your  letters.  She  will  decline  to  enter  into  any 
conversation  with  or  receive  any  visits  from  the  astral 


288  A  Sailor's  Home 

personality  of  a  sweetheart" — I  laughed  triumphantly — 
"who  had  jilted  her,  heartlessly  for  a  Thibetan  lady  of 
two  hundred  years  of  age." 

Johnson-Williams  paled  and  faded,  but  he  recovered 
himself  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"It — it  is  incredible!  that  you — that  you  should  have 
turned  Gwendollen  against  me.  That  she  should  have 
stooped  to  believe  such  a  cock-and-bull  story — for  it  is  a 
cock-and-bull  story,  Pegley! — is  bewilderingly  incompre- 
hensible. But  I — I  will  be  patient.  I  will  try  to  believe 
that  you  have  some  excellent  motive" — I  laughed  again, 
malignantly — "at  the  bottom  of  all  this.  You  have  pur- 
posely misrepresented  yourself,  but  it  is  no  use — no  use 
at  all.  You  couldn't  be  a  villain,  Pegley,  my  dear  fellow, 
you  couldn't  indeed !" 

"SCAT!" 

The  fellow's  persistent  belief  in  me  had  irritated  me 
past  bearing.  With  a  violent  effort  of  will-power,  I 
extinguished  him,  and  sinking  back  upon  my  pillow,  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  just.  Next  morning  I  awoke  bright  as 
the  proverbial  button — a  breathing,  sentient  proof  to  the 
contrary  of  the  assertion  that  the  wicked  man  cannot 
possibly  be  a  happy  one.  Bent  as  I  was  upon  making 
Gwendollen  my  own  at  the  earliest  possible  date,  it  may 
be  easily  believed  that  I  set  at  once  about  the  necessary 
preparations.  I  began  by  applying  for  three  weeks'  leave 
of  absence  from  the  office.  And,  as  a  new  book-keeper 
had  been  temporarily  obtained  in  the  place  of  Johnson- 
Williams,  poor  wretch !  and  in  consideration  of  my  hav- 
ing, previously  to  his  advent,  performed  much  of  the 
extra  duty  that  the  absence  of  mmy  betrayed  friend  en- 
tailed upon  the  rest  of  the  working  staff — my  request  was 
granted.  Then  I  bought  a  new  licence,  carefully  putting 
the  old  one  away  in  a  pigeon-hole  of  my  bureau,  with  a 
kind  of  feeling  that  it  would  be  unlucky  to  use  it — and 
gave  the  necessary  notice  to  the  incumbent  of  the  parish. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  289 

In  a  few  days  more  Gwendollen — oh !  dizzying  thought ! 
— would  be  my  own.  My  own ;  whom  neither  man  nor 
ghost  should  ever  take  from  me.  And  as  soon  as  the 
hymeneal  knot  was  fairly  tied,  we  were  to  start  for 
Margate — Margate  at  the  end  of  June  is  both  healthful 
and  delightful — while  Mrs.  Toms — who  had  been  in  a 
permanent  condition  of  pleasing  agitation  designated  by 
herself  as  "the  twitters"  ever  since  the  announcement  of 
our  engagement — performed  the  sleight-of-hand  feat 
designated  by  herself  as  "throwing  two  combination-bed- 
and-sittings  into  one  sweet!" 

And  I  got  myself  measured  for  the  first  superfine  frock- 
coat  I  had  ever  contemplated  wearing,  with  other  es- 
sentials on  a  corresponding  scale  of  magnificence.  It 
may  be  imagined  that  I  was  kept  pretty  well  employed 
by  the  cares  inseparable  to  my  approaching  change  of 
condition — and  the  necessity  of  keeping  Gwendolen's 
mind  employed. 

To  keep  Gwendolen's  mind  employed,  her  thoughts 
diverted!  It  was  a  poignant  necessity.  The  regular 
sights  of  the  metropolis  being  by  this  time  completely 
exhausted,  I  had  invested  in  an  Historical  Guide  to 
London — a  publication  which  no  one  needs  more  than 
the  born  cockney,  who  has  never  spent  three  weeks  out 
of  sound  of  Bow  Bells  in  his  life;  and  I  was  in  hopes, 
as  I  whirled  Gwendollen  from  one  memorable  spot  to 
another,  that  the  resources  of  the  volume  to  which  I  so 
desperately  clung  might  not  be  exhausted  before  our 
wedding-day. 

But  Fate  was  against  me.  The  long-dreaded  moment 
came !  Upon  the  very  morning  of  the  eve  of  the  day  that 
was  to  make  Gwendollen  my  own  forever,  I  realised  that 
there  was  nothing  more  left  to  see.  It  was  ten  o'clock  on 
a  Friday  morning ;  twenty- four  hours  yet  remained  to  be 
filled  up.  And  what — what  was  I  to  fill  them  up  with  ? 

We  sat  at  breakfast  together  in  Mrs.  Toms'  sitting- 


290  A  Sailor's  Home 


room.  That  estimable  female  had  poured  out  our  coffee, 
and  quitted  the  apartment  with  an  elaborate  delicacy  of 
manner.  Gwendollen  made  no  effort  to  detain  her.  It 
was  I — I  who  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  ask  her 
to  stop,  for  the  silence  maintained  with  regard  to  John- 
son-Williams by  his  pstudo- fiancee  from  the  moment 
of  the  revelation  upon  Primrose  Hill  until  now,  was,  I 
felt,  about  to  be  broken,  and  my  invention,  I  felt,  would 
not  be  up  to  supplying  any  demands  that  might  be  made 
upon  it  in  the  way  of  biographical  details  regarding  Her 
Highness  the  Princess  Sankaracharya  or  the  geographi- 
cal formation  of  Thibet.  My  inventive  genius  had 
deserted  me — I  knew,  I  felt.  Indeed,  the  frenzy  of 
mendacity  which  overpowered  me  on  the  occasion  pre- 
viously recorded,  was  my  single  experience  of  the  kind. 
I  have  been  truthful,  to  the  verge  of  dulness,  ever  since. 
The  words  came  at  last.  .  .  . 

XXII 

Yes,  the  words  came!  I  had  seen  them  plowing  in 
her  eyes — poor  blue  eyes!  they  seemed  to  have  cried  a 
good  deal  in  the  last  few  weeks — and  on  her  lips. 

"How  long  does  it  take  a  vessel — a  steamship— to 
reach  Calcutta?" 

"About  a  month." 

She  leaned  her  round  chin  upon  her  white  palm  and 
pondered. 

"You  are  neglecting  your  breakfast,"  I  suggested. 

"I  don't  want  any!"  she  answered,  rather  curtly,  and 
again  pursued  her  train  of  thought  in  silence.  Which 
she  broke  a  few  moments  later,  by  saying: 

"I  hope  Llewellyn's  body  will  get  there  safely.'* 

"No  doubt,"  I  responded,  with  inward  quakings.  "The 
freight-agents  will  take  care  of  that." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  assented.     "And  yet  there  are 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  291 

dangers  which  carefulness  does  not  always  avert.  White 
ants,  for  instance."  She  shuddered  inexpressibly.  "One 
never  takes  up  a  book  about  travels  in  India,  without 
reading  something  about  the  ravages  of  white  ants.  But 
she  will  take  all  needful  precautions,  I  suppose,  know- 
ing the  country — at  least,  she  ought  to  know  it,  as  she 
is  a  native!" 

"Who?"  I  asked  blandly. 

"Sankaracharya,  of  course,"  responded  Gwendollen. 

"Oh!  Sankaracharya!"  I  echoed  stupidly.  My  mind 
was  anxiously  employed  in  sorting  out  a  scheme — in 
compiling  a  pretext  by  which  my  bride-elect's  attention 
might  be  diverted  from  the  undesirable  subject.  But  I 
couldn't  hit  on  one.  The  well  of  invention  seemed  to 
have  run  dry. 

"I  suppose  she  is  very  brown,"  Gwendollen  continued. 
"Quite  coffee-coloured,  perhaps." 

"Quite  coffee-coloured !" 

"I  thought  so!"  she  exclaimed  triumphantly.  "I 
bought  a  book  all  about  Thibet  yesterday,  and  nearly  all 
last  night — I  have  not  slept  a  wink  lately" — she  sighed — 
"I  lay  awake  pondering  over  what  I  had  read  in  it.  I 
looked  up  the  subject  of  Buddhist  priestesses,  the  very 
first  thing,  and" — she  produced  the  back  of  an  envelope 
scribbled  over  with  pencil  notes — "this  is  the  kind  of 
costume  they  wear.  A  scarlet  mitre-shaped  head-dress, 
gilt  on  the  top,  a  yellow  sheepskin  mantle,  short  petti- 
coats, only  reaching  as  far  as  the  knees — striped  with 
different  colours,  and  to  finish  up  with — a  nose-ring  and 
a  pair  of  green  top-boots."  She  waited  a  moment  to  let 
the  description  soak  in.  "Well?"  she  ejaculated  impa- 
tiently. 

I  smiled  what  I  felt  to  be  a  feeble  smile. 

"I — I  should  think  it  must  be " 

"Awful!"  interrupted  Gwendollen.  (I  had  been  on 
the  point  of  insanely  saying  "very  becoming.") 


292  A  Sailor's  Home 


"You  are  quite  right,  Edward."  (She  had  never  called 
me  Edward  of  her  own  free  will  before.)  "Awful!  I 
should  think  so.  And  the  man  who  could  allow  himself 
to  be  captured  by  such  a  creature  must  be  mad! 
M-mad !" 

In  another  moment  she  would  have  begun  to  cry.  I 
seized  the  newspaper  in  despair — it  was  the  first  thing  I 
could  think  of — and  handed  it  hurriedly  across  the  table. 

"Have  you  seen  the  news  about "  I  slurred  and 

mumbled,  "if  you  haven't,  you  ought  to.  Wonderfully 
interesting  and  vivid.  Gives  quite  a  new  view  of  the 
case." 

"I  don't  know  what  case  you  mean,"  replied  my  fiancee 
— (how  could  she  when  I  didn't?) — "unless  you  are 
talking  about  that  tiresome  cataleptic  creature  at " 

She  broke  off  in  surprise.  "You  haven't  half  finished 
breakfast,"  she  cried,  "so  what  are  you  saying  grace  for?" 

I  had  bowed  my  head  in  thankfulness  for  an  idea 
which  might  prove  my  salvation,  in  the  matter  of  dis- 
tracting Gwendollen's  mind. 

"Yes,  we  will  go.  A  nice  long  journey  there;  a  nice 
long  journey  back.  Saved!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  Gwendollen  interrogated. 

I  said,  recovering  myself:  "Of  course,  reading  about 
the  cataleptic  case  in  Chelsea  is  dull  work.  To  appreci- 
ate the  thing  properly  it  has  to  be  seen." 

"O-oh!"  ejaculated  Gwendollen,  with  a  little  pout  of 
disgust.  "I  wouldn't  look  at  such  a  thing  for  the  world!" 

"My  dear  girl,"  I  responded,  assuming  a  tone  of  al- 
most husband-like  authority,  "you  don't  mean  that  you 
wouldn't  really?  You  only  think  you  wouldn't.  It  is 
an  experience  which  for  my  sake,  for  your  own,  for 
that  of  others,  perhaps,  you  ought  to  undergo." 

"Why?  You're  dreadfully  puzzling  sometimes,"  said 
Gwendollen,  "and  this  is  one  of  the  times.  You  aren't 
a  catalepser" 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  293 

"Cataleptic !"  I  corrected. 

"And  I'm  sure  I'm  not.  And  I  don't  know  anybody 
else  who  is.  And  if  you  knew  how  dreadfully  I  feel  at 
the  bare  idea  of  seeing  the  horrid  creature,  you  wouldn't 
talk  about  it  any  more." 

"This  is  folly,"  I  said  gravely,  "which  your  cooler 
judgment  will  condemn  as  mine  does  now.  I  will  not 
argue  any  more — in  such  a  clear  case  of  absolute — ahem ! 
— I  will  plead.  To  oblige  me,  my  dear  girl !" — I  gnashed 
my  teeth  at  my  own  stupidity  in  using  a  term  of  endear- 
ment so  commonly  employed  by  him! — "To  oblige  me, 
come  and  see  the  Cataleptic  Man.  I  cannot — I  really 
cannot  take  a  refusal.  You  are  aware,"  I  went  on,  re- 
calling to  mind  a  disintegrated  fragment  of  the  original 
editorial  notice  of  the  case,  "you  are  aware  that  the  word 
Katalepsis  in  the  original  Greek,  means  taking  possession 
of " 

"I  did  not  know  it,"  Gwendollen  retorted,  "but  asking 
me  to  oblige  you  in  the  original  English,  seems  to  mean 
that  I  must  go  whether  I  like  or  not."  She  tossed  her 
pretty  head  rather  rebelliously,  and  went  upstairs  to  put 
her  hat  on.  In  ten  minutes  more  we  started.  It  was,  as 
I  had  anticipated,  rather  a  long  jolting  journey.  There 
were  a  number  of  dingy  little  back  streets  to  wind  in  and 
out  of,  before  we  reached  Biggs  Street,  which  proved  by 
far  the  dingiest  of  all.  I  did  not  feel  cheerful  as  I 
glanced  down  the  vista  it  presented — it  certainly  was  not 
the  kind  of  thoroughfare  a  young  lady  would  care  to 
perambulate,  even  with  a  male  escort.  The  public-house 
— I  must  have  been  mad  to  think  of  taking  Gwendollen 
to  a  public-house — was  a  low-browed,  scowling,  wooden- 
fronted  tavern,  opposing  a  baker's  shop  of  clean  and 
cheerful  aspect.  The  baker's  shop,  together  with  a 
glimpse  I  had  of  a  clean  and  cheerful  woman  behind 
the  counter,  and  a  police-constable  patrolling  the  pave- 
ment outside,  suggested  the  idea  that  Gwendollen  should 


294  A  Sailor's  Home 


wait  there  in  safety,  while  I  tested  the  respectability  of 
the  "Pink  Lion"  before  allowing  her  to  place  her  foot 
upon  its  threshold.  So  having  seen  her  deposited  in  a 
clean  Windsor  chair  by  the  clean  counter  of  the  bakery, 
being  smiled  upon  by  the  clean  bakeress,  and  stared  at  by 
the  bakeress's  clean  children,  I  crossed  the  street,  pushed 
open  the  swing-doors  of  the  public-house  and  entered. 

Public  interest  in  the  Cataleptic  Wonder  appeared  to 
have  diminished.  Instead  of  the  seething  crowd  of 
would-be  sightseers  described  by  the  rapturous  reporter 
of  the  Sunday  Intelligencer  the  bar  only  contained  a 
drunken  navigator  and  a  miserable-looking  woman,  hold- 
ing a  baby  in  her  arms,  who  was  trying  to  persuade  him 
to  go  home.  To  her  entreaties  were  added  the  counsels 
of  the  landlord,  a  bibulous-nosed,  large-bodied  man,  in 
a  white  apron  and  shirt-sleeves. 

XXIII 

"That's  right,  M'ria,"  the  landlord  observed  paternally, 
as  the  miserable  woman,  using  the  baby  apparently  as  a 
battering-ram,  half  dragged,  half  hustled  her  sodden 
spouse  into  the  open  air ;  "tyke  'im  aw'y.  'E's  spent  orl 
'is  money,  an'  we  don't  want  'im  'ere.  Wot's  for  you, 
sir?" 

He  leaned  across  the  counter  and  adjusted  a  large 
greasy  smile  to  the  size  of  his  face,  which  was  also 
large  and  greasy. 

"You  have,"  I  said,  throwing  down  twopence  to  pay 
for  the  beer  I  was  firmly  determined  not  to  drink,  "you 
have  a  cataleptic  gentleman  here  whose  case  has  created 
a  great  deal  of  interest?" 

The  landlord's  large  face  lost  its  smile.  He  knocked 
on  the  counter  with  the  bottom  of  a  pint  pot  and  roared 
for  "Chally,"  who  appeared,  in  the  person  of  a  smutty- 
faced  boy. 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  295 

"  'Ere  you !  Go  and  wake  up  Professor  Pargeter — 
'e's  asleep  in  the  club-room — an'  tell  'im  'ere's  a  gent 
come  to  look  at  the  catalepser."  Chally  vanished.  Turn- 
ing to  me,  the  landlord  resumed:  "The  Professor's  the 
medical  gent  wot  watches  the  case.  'E  keeps  the  key 
of  the  room  where  Old  Snoozelum — we  calls  the  cata- 
lepser Old  Snoozelum  by  way  of  a  joke — 'angs  out. 
You'll  'ave  to  pay  a  bob  to  see  'im — it's  wrote  up  there." 

He  indicated  a  fly-blown  notice-card  stuck  up  on  the 
shelf  behind  him  among  the  bottles,  and  yawned  compre- 
hensively, as  if  to  indicate  satiation  with  the  novelty  my 
soul  thirsted  to  see. 

"We've  'ad  'im  a  long  time,"  he  said,  checking  the 
yawn — which  threatened  to  partly  decapitate  him — with 
one  huge,  dingy  paw,  "an'  the  public  intress  is  fallin' 
orf  more  than  a  bit.  At  first  it  was  nothink  but  'urry- 
scurry,  with  newspaper  gents — as  are  gen'rally  a  thusty 
lot — an'  bettin'  gents,  as  is  thustier — an'  the  common 
yerd,  pushin'  an'  scramblin'  to  get  at  'im,  and  nab  locks 
of  'is  'air  for  keepsakes,  or  chip  bits  orf  'is  features — 
as  they  would  V  done  if  we  'adn't  kep'  a  sharp  look- 
out  "  I  pointed  to  my  untasted  beer,  as  he  paused, 

expressively,  and  emptying  the  pewter  at  a  single  gulp, 
he  went  on:  "But  that  was  weeks  an'  weeks  ago,  an'  'e 
ain't  no  nearer  wakin'  up  than  'e  was  at  the  beginnin', 
to  jedge  by  his  looks.  An'  me  and  my  missus  are  getting 
sick  of  the  'ole  lay.  Out  o'  pocket  for  the  rent  o'  'is 
room,  for  one  think — as  'e  can't  up  an'  pay  us  afore  'e 
wakes;  an*  the  Professor — 'is  actin'  manager,  as  e'  calls 
'isself — keeps  a  tight  'old  on  the  box." 

"The  box?"  I  repeated. 

"Ah !"  the  landlord  nodded  solemnly.  "When  fust  'e 
come  yeer,  we  nailed  a  money-box — 'Orspital  Sund'y 
size — to  the  wooden  mankel-piece  at  the  'ead  of  'is  bed, 
because  I  don't  take  no  'count  of  professors  or  actin' 
managers — I've  rubbed  up  agin'  that  kind  o'  cattle 


296  A  Sailor's  Home 

afore."  He  buttonholed  me  across  the  counter  with  a 
dirty  finger,  and  went  on,  breathing  samples  of  his  own 
stock  upon  me,  and  blinking  in  the  light  of  the  single 
flaming  gas-jet,  like  a  kind  of  featherless  owl.  "Nails 
it  on  the  chimbley-piece,  we  does.  And  every  individual 
as  comes  to  see  the  catalepser,  'e  drops  'is  bob  into  that 
box — to  which  there  ain't  no  key,  but  to  open  you  must 
take  an'  bust  it  with  a  poker  or  sich.  And  me  and  the 
Professor  each  has  a  key,  to  the  room,  but  neither  of 
us  ain't  to  enter  it  without  the  other — unless  'e  can. 
But  the  Professor,  'e's  too  fly  for  me ;  and  I'm  too  'anky 
for  'im,  if  it  comes  to  that."  He  laid  his  bulbous  fore- 
finger against  his  bulbous  nose ;  he  winked  a  wink  of 
alcoholic  significance,  as  the  door  of  the  little  bar-par- 
lour opened  and  the  Professor  appeared  upon  its  thres- 
hold. 

My  first  impression  was,  that  the  reporter  of  the 
Sunday  Telegraph  had  not  been  accurate  in  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  Professor.  My  second,  that  the  Professor 
had,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  gone  to  seed  since  the 
decline  of  those  flowery  days  of  popular  patronage  which 
had  greeted  the  first  appearance  of  the  Cataleptic 
Wonder. 

He  wore  no  shining  suit  of  professional  black,  but  a 
tweed  shooting  jacket,  villainously  greasy  and  out  at 
elbows,  and  a  pair  of  short  brown  trousers  from  which 
protruded  a  pair  of  large  feet  in  dirty  striped  socks, 
garnished  with  soiled  red  morocco  slippers.  He  was 
innocent  of  linen;  wore  a  pink  handkerchief  knotted 
tightly  about  his  coarse  neck,  and  an  oleaginous  black 
velvet  smoking  cap  on  the  back  of  his  large  shaggy 
head.  When  I  add  that  his  cheeks  and  chin  bristled  with 
a  beard  of  several  weeks'  growth ;  that  his  nose  was  in- 
flamed from  the  same  causes  that  induced  redness  in  the 
landlord's;  and  that  he  appeared  to  have  slept  in  his 
clothes  for  a  protracted  period,  I  have,  to  all  intents  and 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  297 

purposes,  completed  the  description  of  Professor  Par- 
geter. 

"This  yeer,"  said  the  landlord,  indicating  me  with  a 
wave  of  a  dirty  hand,  "is  the  gent  as  'as  called  to  see 
our  Cataleptic  Wonder.  Sir — name  unknowed"  (with 
a  gleam  of  humour) — "Professor  Pargeter." 

The  Professor  bowed  and  genteelly  repressing  an  im- 
minent hiccough,  said:  "Stremely  gladsher  meeshim — 
shooah!  Sharge"  (with  a  tremendous  effort),  "wun 
shillun!" 

I  produced  a  shilling  from  my  waistcoat  pocket.  The 
landlord  lifted  up  the  zinc-covered  counter  flap  and  in- 
vited me  to  pass  into  the  bar.  I  did  so,  without  one 
intuition — oh,  fool ! — of  what  was  about  to  befall.  The 
Professor,  with  some  difficulty,  executed  a  right-about 
face;  I  fell  into  rank  behind  him:  the  landlord,  after 
hailing  "Chally"  and  bidding  him  mind  the  bar,  fell  in 
behind  me,  and  away  I  was  marched  like  a  theatrical 
captive  between  two  guards,  on  the  way  to  execution. 
We  crossed  the  dirty  little  parlour  back  of  the  bar,  fell 
out  of  a  narrow  doorway  down  three  steps,  climbed  six, 
and  paused  upon  a  dark,  little  strip  of  landing  about  the 
size  of  a  tea-tray.  A  key  rattled  in  the  lock — a  door 
swung  back.  I  had  penetrated  to  the  interior  of  the 
casket  which  contained  the  Cataleptic  Wonder. 

The  room  was  small  and  close,  containing  nothing  but 
a  small  bedstead,  a  chair,  and  a  chest  of  drawers.  Upon 
the  bedstead  was  stretched  a  recumbent  figure,  the  death- 
like rigidity  of  which  caused  me  a  momentary  shudder. 
Such  light  as  made  its  way  into  the  chamber  was  filtered 
through  a  dirty  white  window  blind,  so  that,  while  broad 
generalities  were  to  be  distinguished,  details  remained 
unseen. 

"You  shee  beforeyou,"  began  Professor  Pargeter 
balancing  himself  in  an  upright  position  and  carefully 
extending  an  indicatory  right  arm  towards  the  inanimate 


298  A  Sailor's  Home 


subject  of  his  lecture,  "wunsha  mosh — moshramarshable 
cash — caseshonrecordish  of  condish',  cashalepsh,  protrash' 
— protrash  forperiod  nearl'  twomunsh — hie!" 

"Doorin*  which  time,"  said  the  landlord's  voice  from 
behind  me,  repeating  what  was  evidently  a  familiar  for- 
mula, "the  subjec'  'as  not  partook  of  no  nourishment 
wotever.  If  you  was  to  fire  cannons  in  'is  yeer,  or  insert 
'airpins  in  his  body,  sich  heffiks  would  be  inadekit  to 
arouse  'm  from  'is  happythetic  conditions." 

"You  will  perapshask,"  resumed  the  Professor,  who 
seemed  to  resent  the  landlord's  interference,  "whesh  no 
injoosh  resush  mi' — mi'  beantishipash  from  sho  pro- 
tracted periosh  abshinensh?  Medical  shiensh  ansh  No! 
No!"  He  nearly  tilted  himself  over  with  the  violent 
stress  he  laid  on  the  negative.  "I  repeash,  No !" 

"Beyond  a  wisible  wastin'  of  the  hadipost  'issues," 
continued  the  landlord  from  behind,  "wich  materially  in- 
creases the  attentooation  of  the  subjec',  an'  the  pallig 
yew  of  'is  features,  there  is  nothin'  to  shrink  from  in  the 
haspik  of  the  Cataleptic  Wonder.  There  is  even  majisty 
in  'is  calm  attitude,  remindin'  to  the  observer  of 
Napolyum  at  Saint  'Eleener.  'E  wears  a  smile  upon  'is 
lips,  as  though  revertin*  in  his  dreams  to  the  'appy  days 
of  child'ood." 

"Can't  you  draw  up  the  blind?"  I  said.  "I  can  see 
nothing  plainly." 

XXIV 

Compliantly  the  landlord  creaked  across  the  floor.  The 
blind  flapped  and  rotated  on  its  roller.  Daylight  poured 
into  the  stuffy  room,  now  just  revealed  to  the  observer  in 
all  its  dinginess  and  showed  me  ...  lying  there  .  .  . 

"JOHNSON-WILLIAMS  !" 

"Did  you  speak,  sir?"  queried  the  landlord,  while  the 
Professor,  blinking  in  the  light,  like  some  unsavoury  kind 
of  night-bird,  demanded : 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  299 

"Whasheshay?" 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  hide  my  agita- 
tion— I  was  inventive  enough  to  produce  a  lie. 

"I  merely  said  'Jerusalem!'  The  gentleman  looked 
so  very — very  dead!" 

"I  'arf  b'lieve  'e  his,  sometimes !"  the  landlord  mut- 
tered, while  the  Professor  admonished  him  in  an  equally 
audible  aside. 

"Shushup!!!" 


I  grasped  the  foot-rail  of  the  bedstead  in  both  hands, 
and  with  a  mighty  effort,  steadied  my  whirling  brain, 
and  forced  my  thumping  heart  to  beat  less  furiously. 
I  turned  to  the  two  men.  I  addressed  the  inebriate  Pro- 
fessor— the  long-sought,  but  now  discovered,  Doctor 
George. 

"I  am  (I  omitted  to  mention  the  fact  before)  a  medi- 
cal student."  This  falsehood,  framed  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  was  fated  to  be  the  last  of  the  series.  "The 
case  is  extremely  interesting,  and  I  should  like  to  ex- 
amine the  subject  more  closely.  If  you  will  consent  to 
leave  me  alone  with  him  for  the  space  of  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  I  will  put  into  this  box  upon  the  mantelpiece" — 
towards  which  the  landlord  directed  an  expressive  eye — 
"ten  shillings  instead  of  the  single  one  which  you  are 
accustomed  to  charge  to  visitors." 

Professor  Pargeter  and  the  landlord  looked  at  one 
another. 

"Qui'  shafe,"  the  Professor  commented.  "Bosh  nailsh 
shimpiece !" 

"And  the  winder  screwed  up,"  rejoined  the  landlord, 
"as  was  done  to  purvent  any  outside  party  as  took  a 
interest  in  the  inside  of  the  Cataleptic  Wonder's  collectin' 
box,  gettin'  in  that  way  one  fine  night.  So  we're  safe  in 
strikin'  a  bargain.  Done  with  you !  For  ten  bob !" 


300  A  Sailor's  Home 


"Allri'l"  agreed  the  Professor.  He  reeled,  the  land- 
lord rolled,  out  of  the  room  and  shut  the  door. 

Left  alone,  I  walked  to  the  bedside.  I  gazed  upon  the 
corporeal  tenement  of  the  friend  I  had  betrayed.  He 
was  unchanged,  though  preceptibly  thinner;  and  though 
it  was  evident  he  had  not  been  dusted  for  some  time, 
there  were  no  marks  of  rough  usage  on  his  lace  or 
person.  His  boots  stood  upon  the  chest-of-drawers,  as 
if  they  had  been  a  curious  pair  of  fossils;  his  shabby 
coat  hung  over  a  chair ;  his  linen  had  yellowed  with  the 
passage  of  time ;  his  nickel  watch-chain  had  tarnished  for 
want  of  rubbing;  but  it  was  the  same  old  Johnson-Will- 
iams. Should  I  leave  him  to  his  fate,  I  argued  with  my 
evil  demon,  as  I  stood  by  his  bedside  ?  Should  I  go  upon 
my  heartless  way? — crown  my  treachery  by  marrying 
Gwendollen  and  being  happy  ever  afterwards? — for  in 
the  poetical  justice  of  remorse  I  had  ceased  to  believe ! 
Or  should  I  call  him  back  to  himself;  restore  all  that 
Fate  and  I  had  taken  from  him;  be  best  man  at  his 
wedding,  and  die  eventually  of  a  broken  heart  within  a 
decent  interval?  I  don't  know  how  long  I  should  have 
gone  on  revolving  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  question.  I 
don't  know  which  side  of  the  balance  would  have  kicked 
the  beam  had  not  Johnson-Williams  saved  me  the  trouble 
by  sneezing  violently  and  opening  his  eyes.  In  another 
instant  he  sat  up,  regarded  me  intently,  and  exclaimed, 
as  he  held  out  his  hand: 

"You  see  I  was  right.  I  knew  you  could  not  be  a 
villain,  my  dear  Pegley,  in  spite  of  all  your  assertions 
to  the  contrary.  And  now  tell  me  where  I  am,  and  how 
you  managed  to  trace  me  to  my — in  point  of  fact,  my 
Lair?" 

The  next  ten  minutes  were  occupied  with  explanations, 
interrogations,  and  replies.  We  must  have  raised  our 
voices  incautiously,  because,  many  minutes  before  the 
expiration  of  the  purchased  quarter-hour,  heavy  foot- 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  301 

steps  creaked  cautiously  upon  the  staircase  and  stopped 
upon  the  landing,  whilst  heavy  breathing  sounded  out- 
side the  door,  which — the  key  having  been  left  inside — I 
had  locked. 

"The  landlord,"  I  whispered  to  Johnson-Williams, 
"and  Doctor  George." 

He  bit  his  lips  and  his  thin  face  flushed. 

"We  must  face  them  and  have  it  out,  my  dear  Pegley," 
he  whispered.  "Give  me  a  minute  to  put  my  boots  on, 
help  me  into  my  coat,  for  I  feel  a  little  weak  and  giddy" 
'(it  would  have  been  queer,  I  thought,  if  he  did  not), 
"and  then  unlock  the  door." 

I  did  as  he  asked  and  flipped  off  some  of  the  dust  that 
had  accumulated  upon  the  cornices,  ledges  and  projec- 
tions of  his  anatomy,  with  my  pocket-handkerchief.  I 
had  hardly  finished  doing  so,  when  a  tremendous  blow 
caused  the  door  to  quiver  on  its  hinges. 

"Now  then!"  roared  the  landlord  in  stentorian  ac- 
cents, "wot's  goin'  on  in  'eer?  Wot  do  you  mean  by 
lockin*  the  bloomin'  door,  an'  talkin'  to  yourself  like  a 
Punch  and  Judy?  If  any  'arm's  done  to  the  Catalepser, 
you'll  'ave  to  pay  for  it.  D'yeer?  Come  out  o'  that 
afore  I  busts  in  the  door !"  Another  thump.  "Come  out, 
you  meddlin'  young  sawbones !" 

I  glanced  at  Johnson- Williams.  He  was  standing  lank, 
tall  and  upright,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  His  fists  were 
clenched;  his  lips  set  with  unusual  sternness.  Perhaps 
the  thought  of  Gwendollen  inspired  him — Gwendollen,  in 
the  baker's  shop  over  the  way,  waiting  for  me ;  wonder- 
ing at  my  delay — guessing  what  caused  it.  I  swallowed 
down  the  lump  that  rose  in  my  throat  at  the  recollection. 
In  obedience  to  a  nod  from  my  friend — who  seemed  to 
assume  the  lead,  quite  naturally — I  unlocked  the  door 
and  threw  it  open.  I  anticipated  an  inrush  and  prepared 
to  receive  it,  without  pausing  to  calculate  the  effect  the 
appearance  of  the  Cataleptic  Wonder,  revivified  and  on 


302  A  Sailor's  Home 


his  legs,  might  have  upon  the  landlord  of  the  "Pink  Lion" 
and  Professor  Pargeter. 

The  effect  was  a  magnificent  one.  With  a  wild  yell 
of  horror,  the  Professor,  who  pot-valiantly  led  the 
charge,  bounded  backwards,  upsetting  the  landlord,  who 
followed  close  upon  his  heels.  They  must  have  rolled 
together  down  the  six  steps  that  led  to  the  room,  for  go- 
ing out  upon  the  landing  and  looking  down,  I  saw  them 
lying  in  a  very  tangled  condition  at  the  bottom. 

"Come,"  I  said  hurriedly  to  Johnson-Williams.  "We 
must  run  for  it."  I  prepared  to  lead  the  way,  but  he 
stopped  me. 

"I  do  not  leave  this  place,  my  dear  Pegley,  after  all 
I  have  undergone  in  it — without  my  property." 

XXV 

"Your  property?"  I  repeated  blankly.  "What  prop- 
erty?" 

As  Johnson-Williams  pointed  to  the  money-box  upon 
the  mantelpiece,  and  seized  the  poker,  a  light  burst  upon 
me.  The  box  bore  an  inscription,  in  staggering  letters  of 
white  paint: 

"FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  CATALEPTIC  WONDER" 

"If  that  money  is  not  mine,  my  dear  Pegley,"  said 
Johnson- Williams,  "I  never  earned  a  penny  in  my  life." 
He  swung  the  poker  aloft,  and  with  a  greater  display  of 
power  than  I  should  have  expected  him  to  manifest, 
smashed  in  the  lid. 

The  sound  of  breaking  wood  and  jingling  coins  seemed 
to  animate  the  craven  spirits  on  the  staircase  with  a 
desperate  accession  of  boldness.  The  landlord  began  to 
shout  "Thieves!" — the  Professor  to  swear  horribly, 
whilst  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  bar-boy,  Chally,  and  the 
shriller  accents  of  a  female — presumably  the  landlady — 
were  heard  enquiring  into  the  cause  of  the  disturbance, 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  303 

and  suggesting  that  a  policeman  should  be  fetched.  The 
crisis  demanded  action.  Stepping  out  upon  the  landing, 
I  looked  down  upon  the  aggressive  group  below,  and 
said  loudly: 

"Send  for  a  policeman  if  you  like.  The  sooner  the 
better  for  us ;  the  sooner  the  worse  for  you.  Rascal !" — 
I  turned  my  indignant  gaze  downwards  upon  the  inflamed 
countenance  of  the  Professor — "who  under  the  name  of 
Doctor  George  kidnapped  the  body — the  living  body  of 
this  gentleman — my  friend" — I  waved  my  hand  in  the 
direction  of  Johnson-Williams — "from  his  address  at 
26,  Great  Joram  Street,  two  months  ago !  Rogue !" — 
I  turned  my  attention  to  the  landlord,  whose  flabby 
countenance  was  streaked  with  alarm  and  perspiration — 
"Rogue,  who  received  and  harboured  thrt  body,  knowing 
it  to  have  been  nefariously  obtained " 

"Which  he  never!"  shrilled  the  landlady. 

"The  Law  will  deal  with  you  according  to  your  deserts. 
Penal  servitude — probably  for  life — is  the  mildest  sen- 
tence you  may  expect!  Dare  to  attempt  violence" — the 
landlord  had  begun  to  turn  up  his  sleeves — "and  I  break 
the  bedroom  window  and  blow  this  police  whistle" — I 
produced  one  from  my  pocket,  which  I  had  carried  about 
with  me  for  years  without  ever  being  called  upon  to  use 
it — "till  every  constable  in  Chelsea  comes  about  your 
ears." 

"And  while  they  are  coming,"  put  in  Johnson- Williams, 
"we  will  barricade  this  room  door  with  the  bedstead, 
and  defy  you  through  the  keyhole  to  do  your  worst." 

The  latter  threat  did  not  appear  to  me  a  very  terrible 
one;  but  a  silence  ensued  upon  it,  and  a  muttered  col- 
loquy of  short  duration  took  place  between  the  Professor 
and  the  landlord.  Then  the  latter  called  upstairs  in  a 
would-be  conciliatory  tone: 

"Gents !" 

"Well,"  we  answered. 


304  A  Sailor's  Home 


"Look  'ere.  Me  and  the  Professor  'as  got  a  word  to 
say.  Can't  this  'ere  difference  be  squared?" 

"Squared?"  echoed  Johnson-Williams. 

"Settled.  I  don't  want  no  constables  'eer — I  don't," 
continued  the  landlord.  "I've  got  a  character  to  lose 
and  a  license  to  keep.  Let's  come  up  an'  palaaver." 

I  held  a  short  consultation  with  Johnson-Williams. 

"You  may  come  up,"  I  said,  "but  alone  and  unarmed. 
Hold  your  hands  above  your  head" — I  shook  the  poker, 
which  I  had  borrowed  from  Johnson-Williams,  warn- 
ingly — "so  that  we  may  be  quite  sure  you  intend  no  foul 
play.  Now  then!" 

And  the  landlord  came  up. 

He  looked  funny  enough,  holding  his  arms  in  the  pre- 
scribed position,  while  endeavouring  to  staunch  the  effu- 
sion from  a  bleeding  nose — dealt  him  by  the  elbow  of  the 
Professor — with  a  dirty  shirt-sleeve. 

"Gents,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  recovered  breath  enough 
to  speak — for  his  fall  had  shaken  him  considerably,  and 
he  was  by  nature  an  asthmatic,  pursy  kind  of  man — 
"gents,  I  don't  deny  you  'ave  us  on  the  'ip,  as  the  sayin' 
is.  But,  though  things  looks  bad  agin  me,  I  ain't  such 
a  reg'lar  bad  'un  as  the  Professor."  He  wiped  his  tear- 
ful eyes  and  his  bleeding  nose  with  the  other  shirt-sleeve, 
and  went  on:  "I  don't  deny  I've  kep'  'is  company  an* 
give  in  to  'is  persuasions,  but  it's  laid  'eavy  on  my  con- 
science the  'ole  time.  When  he  drove  up  to  my  privit 
door,  quite  sober,  in  a  cab  one  night,  an'  sent  for  me 
round  from  the  bar  and  told  me  as  'e'd  collared  a  cata- 
lepsy an'  meant  to  'ave  a  show,  and  share  the  dibs  the 
public  'ud  pay  to  see  the  corpuss" — Johnson-Williams 
turned  his  head  indignantly — "I  did  my  best  to  argey  'im 
out  of  it.  'It  ain't  a  'onest  act,  George ' " 

"Then  his  name  is  George?" 

"One  of  'is  names,"  sniffed  the  landlord ;  "but  between 
me  an'  you,  'e's  got  a  plenty  of  aliases  to  pick  and  choose 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  305 

from.  A  bad  lot,  a  reg'lar  bad  lot,  an'  my  shame  it  is  I 
ever  took  up  with  'im.  'George/  I  says,  that  night,  Mo 
reflectuate,  George !  This  is  a  wrong  thing,  George,  and 
will  bring  no  luck.'  Then  'e  says :  'Wen  we  comes  for 
to  divide  the  swag' — an  Apollyum  'e  is  in  the  temptin' 
line — 'w'en  we  comes  to  divide  the  swag,  you'll  sing  a 
different  toon,  old  cockyolly-bird.'  'But,  George,'  I  says, 
'Wot  are  we  to  do  with  the  gen'lemen  w'en  'e  wakes  up  ?' 
'Ho!'  'e  says,  'there'll  be  time  to  think  of  that  when  he 
does  wake  up.'  But  all  along  it's  laid  'eavy  on  my  mind — 
an'  even  keepin'  a  key  to  the  door,  an'  settin'  Chally  to 
watch  on  the  landin'  o'  nights,  ain't  been  no  relief  to  my 
f eelin's :  for  George  'e  kep'  puttin'  off  dividin'  the  money 
from  day  to  day,  an'  I've  knowed  as  'e  were  only  watchin* 
'is  opportunity  to  bolt  with  the  'ole  lump." 

"Sixty-five  pounds  in  silver,"  said  Johnson- Williams, 
producing  a  heavy  bundle  tied  up  in  a  coarse  towel. 
Methodical  fellow !  He  had  counted  the  contents  of  the 
box  and  packed  it  conveniently  for  porterage,  even  while 
I  had  been  parleying  on  the  stairs. 

"Sixty-five !  I  made  sure  there  was  more,"  groaned 
the  landlord.  "George  must  a'  found  some  way  o'  gettin' 
at  it,  in  spite  of  me  tryin'  to  keep  'im  content  with  drink, 
and  watchin'  'im  like  the  apple  o'  my  hi!  Sixty-five! 
Now  if  you  two  gents  was  to  take  thirty-two  ten,  betwigst 
you,  an'  'and  me  over  the  rest,  I  should  be  quite  satisfied 
— I  should  indeed." 

"And  of  course  you  will  divide  with  us  the  handsome 
profits  realised  over  the  sale  of  drinks  to  the  thousands 
of  individuals  who  have,  within  the  last  two  months, 
crowded  to  your  house,  to  inspect  the  gentleman  whom 
you  illegally  assisted  to  kidnap  and  make  an  exhibition 
of?"  I  suggested. 

The  landlord's  jaw  dropped. 

"You  had  better  make  no  more  demands,"  I  said,  "lest 
we  lose  patience.  If  you  escape — through  our  leniency — 


306  A  Sailor's  Home 


prosecution  and  imprisonment  for  the  outrage  you  have 
perpetrated  upon  the  most  susceptible  feelings  of  a  harm- 
less gentleman,  you  may  consider  yourself  lucky.  The 
money  is  his,  and  he  intends  to  keep  it." 

"Intends  to  keep  it,"  echoed  Johnson-Williams,  lov- 
ingly cuddling  the  heavy  bundle. 

"And  ain't  I  to  be  paid  my  rent  for  the  room  as  you've 
occkypied  for  nigh  on  ten  weeks  past?"  demanded  the 
crestfallen  landlord. 

"Not  one  stiver,"  I  said  decidedly. 

"Not  the  half  of  one,"  echoed  Johnson-Williams. 

"Then  I'm  beat,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  throws  up 
my  'ands."  He  let  them  drop  heavily  at  his  sides  as  he 
spoke. 

XXVI 

"That  is  enough,"  I  said.  "Now  go  downstairs  before 
us." 

"Wot!  Ain't  you  goin'  to  'ave  it  out  with  the  Pro- 
fessor?" queried  the  landlord. 

"With  the  Professor,"  I  answered  sternly,  "we  have 
nothing  to  do,  except  to  hand  him  over  to  the  authorities 
if  he  endeavours  to  molest  us." 

And  still  grasping  the  poker,  and  followed  by  my  re- 
covered friend,  bearing  the  weighty  mass  of  shillings,  I 
descended  the  short  staircase.  We  turned  into  the  little 
bar-parlour,  where  we  found  the  landlord's  wife  in  hys- 
terics, undergoing  vigorous  ministrations  on  the  part  of 
the  boy  Chally  and  a  grimy  little  servant  maid,  and  en- 
tered the  bar.  As  we  did  so,  a  tall  figure  staggered 
forward  and  endeavoured  to  prevent  our  egress. 

It  was  the  Professor,  who  had  been  steadying  his 
nerves,  inwardly,  by  the  absorption  of  more  alcohol, 
and  outwardly  by  a  liberal  application  of  cold  water.  He 
held  a  battered  stethoscope  in  one  hand,  as  a  direct  illus- 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  307 

tration  of  his  medical  attainments,  I  suppose,  and  a  long 
slip  of  dirty  paper  in  the  other. 

"One  momensh !"  He  stretched  out  the  stethoscope  im- 
pressively. "Before  you  leave  shish  philanshropic — opic 
roofsh" — he  addressed  himself  particularly  to  Johnson- 
Williams — "I — hie ! — demandsh  tobeyerd !  Tobeyerd ! 
The  ingrashisood — humanashurish  proverbial" — he  shook 
his  drunken  head  with  solemnity — "bushimashy  in  whole 
coursh  my  life  sho  flagram — flagram  cashi  nev'  met. 
Nev' !"  Here  he  began  to  shed  tears.  "I  foun'  a  total- 
teetotal  shrangeish  in  shate  cashalepshish,  an'  took  shat 
shrangerish  in.  I  roush  public  in'ris  in  behalf  shat  mansh ! 
I  raish  shubscripshush  for  fan's  benefish.  How  doesh 
'at  mansh  rirrurn  kinnish?  Waksh  up,  an'  endeavoursh 
take  Frensh  leave.  Copsh  sh'swagsh,  without  one 
shought  for  man — man  who  befrenned  him."  He  dried 
his  tears  with  the  end  of  his  draggled  neckerchief,  and 
went  on:  "When  man  dosh  at,  though  my  art  may 
bleedsh,  I  ussher  no  reproach.  I  shtand  upon  fair  bashish 
— phil — philanshopy."  He  staggered  wildly.  "I  shay 
Human  Nashur  hash  in  person  shish  man  desheived  me. 
I  am  berrayed,  calumniarided,  bush  I  bear  no  malsh'  at 
mansh.  I  mere — merely  offer  'at  mansh  My  Bill." 

He  waved  the  dirty  slip  of  paper  frantically  in  the  face 
of  Johnson- Williams.  My  pacific  friend  was  roused  at 
last.  To  be  presented  by  the  drunken  medical  villain  who 
had  kidnapped  him,  with  an  account  for  attendance !  It 
was  too  much.  He  dealt  the  Professor  an  energetic  shove 
with  the  bundle  of  money  in  the  sensitive  regions  situated 
behind  the  middle  buttons  of  the  waistcoat,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  collapse,  gaspingly,  upon  a  pile 
of  spittoons. 

As  we  shook  the  sawdust  of  the  "Pink  Lion"  from  the 
soles  of  our  boots  for  ever,  he  scrambled  up  again.  His 
lofty  mood  had  changed.  He  implored  us,  with  tears,  to 
return  and  hear  the  sad  story  of  his  life.  He  had  been 


308  A  Sailor's  Home 

a  wrongdoer,  he  said,  but  the  demon  who  had  tempted 
him  to  his  fall  was  the  landlord,  and  he  was  ready  to 
expose  and  denounce  him  for  the  small  sum  of  five 
pounds  cash.  We  did  not  accept  his  offer.  Fate  has 
never  thrown  either  of  those  two  scoundrels  in  our  way 
since  then.  The  only  light  that  ever  shone  upon  their  sub- 
sequent career  was  turned  on  a  few  days  later  by  a  re- 
porter belonging  to  the  staff  of  the  Sunday  Intellingencer: 

"POLICE  INTELLIGENCE 
"CHELSEA — BEFORE   MR.    PINCHING   HATSHER. 

"Amusing  Affray  in  a  Public-House. — WILLIAM 
BULGER,  landlord  of  the  'Pink  Lion'  public-house, 
Biggs  Street,  and  GEORGE  HENRY  HAMILTON  WASH- 
INGTON PARGETER  (an  alleged  Professor  of  an 
American  medical  university,  and  the  person  who 
obtained  a  considerable  amount  of  credit  for  philan- 
thropic efforts  in  raising  a  public  subscription  for  the 
Cataleptic  Wonder,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  was 
on  exhibition  at  the  'Pink  Lion'),  were  charged  by 
Constables  Rickards  and  Tinley  with  drunkenness, 
violent  conduct  and  the  use  of  abusive  language  on 
the  above-named  premises,  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
— th.  The  constables  being  questioned,  said  that 
they  found  a  crowd  assembled  round  the  door  of 
the  'Pink  Lion.'  The  landlord  and  the  'Professor,' 
both  in  an  evident  state  of  intoxication,  were  rolling 
on  the  floor,  pummelling  one  another.  They  sepa- 
rated them  with  difficulty. — MR.  PINCHING  HAT- 
SHER: What  was  the  cause  of  the  quarrel? — CON- 
STABLE RICKARDS  :  It  seems  the  Cataleptic  Wonder, 
after  lying  insensible  for  over  a  month  at  the  'Pink 
Lion,'  come  to  his  self  and  hooked  it  with  the  money- 
box that  very  morning. — MR.  PINCHING  HATSHER: 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  309 

Whose  money-box? — CONSTABLE  TINLEY:  His  own ! 
It  was  put  by  his  bedside  for  people  to  drop  con- 
tributions in. — MR.  PINCHING  HATSHER:  Then 
these  men,  apparently,  intended  to  divert  the  result 
of  the  public  collection  to  their  own  uses,  and  fought 
when  they  found  that  the  man  had  made  sure  of 
his  own?  (Here  one  of  the  prisoners  was  under- 
stood to  say  something  about  philanthropy.) — MR. 
PINCHING  HATSHER:  Yes,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
your  kind  of  philanthropy  going  about  (laughter}. 
I  shall  fine  you  each  ten  shillings.  In  default  of 
payment,  you  can  go  to  prison  and  take  your  phil- 
anthropy with  you  (more  laughter).  The  money  was 
paid  and  the  men  left  the  court,  but  before  they 
were  out  of  the  precincts  the  Professor,  who  it  ap- 
pears, has  long  been  'wanted*  by  the  American  po- 
lice for  complicity  in  a  series  of  impudent  swindles, 
was  arrested  on  an  extradition  warrant." 

Need  I  describe  the  scene  that  took  place  in  the  little 
baker's  shop,  when  Johnson- Williams  and  I  tumbled  in 
together  ?  How  I,  after  handing  the  astonished  bakeress 
five  shillings,  induced  her  to  retire  into  her  private  par- 
lour, locked  the  shop-door  to  keep  out  possible  intruders, 
and  went  into  the  business  of  explanation,  with  the  des- 
perate resolve  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  How  Gwen- 
dollen,  after  emptying  the  vials  of  her  wrath  upon  the 
innocent  head  of  her  lover — of  her  rightful  lover — was 
taken  faint,  and  had  to  be  revived  with  milk  out  of  the 
pail  on  the  counter,  while  Johnson- Williams — who  had 
certainly  a  good  right  to  the  possession  of  an  appetite 
after  a  two  months'  fast — perpetrated  fearful  ravages 
upon  the  relays  of  rolls  that  had  just  come  up  smoking 
hot  from  the  oven,  and  felt  very  ill  afterwards,  in  con- 
sequence !  Useless  !  Impossible !  No  pen,  wielded  by  a 
human  being  in  possession  of  ordinary  powers,  could 


A  Sailor's  Home 


do  justice  to  the  scene,  which  attained  its  wildest 
pitch  of  indescribability,  when  both  Johnson-Williams 
and  Gwendollen  absolutely  refused  to  credit  my  assur- 
ance that  I  had  thoroughly  intended  to  play  the  villainous 
role  I  had  set  down  for  myself,  to  the  bitter  end.  Nothing 
I  could  say  could  convince  them.  Nothing !  To  this  day, 
my  friend  and  his  wife  believe  me — in  spite  of  my  reit- 
erated assurances  to  the  contrary — to  be  the  most  noble, 
modest,  unselfish,  generous  of  men.  They  hold  me  up  as 
a  model  before  their  children.  As  long  as  I  live,  I,  un- 
worthy, shall  continue  to  be  lauded,  blessed  and  praised 
by  those  two  people.  And  when  I  die,  they  will  mourn 
me  deeply — sincerely — though  I  don't  deserve  it. 

XXVII 

We  released  the  bakeress  from  her  back-parlour  by- 
and-by,  paid  for  the  rolls  and  milk,  hailed  a  passing  four- 
wheeler,  and  were  driven  home. 

We  dined  together.  Johnson-Williams — to  whom  I 
gave  up  my  room — retired  early,  feeling  weak  and  over- 
done :  while  I  went  round  and  paid  his  rent  and  took  away 
his  few  goods,  and  fewer  garments,  from  26,  Great  Joram 
Street.  I  was  not  communicative,  but  reserved,  and  to 
this  day,  the  landlady  does  not  know  what  was  the  ulti- 
mate fate  of  the  lodger  who  was  kidnapped  by  the  in- 
genious— and  as  ingenuous  "Doctor  George." 

We  had  the  wedding  the  next  day.  It  was  lucky  I  had 
kept  Gwendolen's  purchased  licence  by  me !  I  gave  away 
the  bride,  who  was  married  with  the  ring  I  had  bought, 
and  stood  best  man  to  the  bridegroom,  who  wore  the 
superfine  coat  I  had  ordered  for  my  o-wn  wedding!  I 
kept  the  trousers,  as  they  were  so  much  too  short. 

Subsequently,  we  breakfasted  at  a  restaurant,  because 
Mrs.  Toms  could  not  be  brought  to  understand  the  situa- 
tion, or  regard  Johnson- Williams  in  any  other  light  than 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  311 

that  of  an  interloper,  who  had  stepped  in  at  the  last 
moment  and  robbed  me  of  my  bride.  And  herself  of  a 
let,  because  the  "two  combined  bed  and  sittings"  were 
never  "throwed  into  one  sweet"  after  all. 

But  it  was  a  pleasant  wedding  breakfast.  I  believe 
pleasanter  than  if  it  had  been  my  own,  and  when  Johnson- 
Williams  looked  at  me  over  his  second  glass  of  cham- 
pagne —  I  had  dedicated  the  first  to  the  health  of  the 
new-made  bride  —  and  said  —  leaning  across  the  table  — 
and  speaking  in  a  low  tone  —  because  of  the  other  people 
in  the  room  —  that  he  had  a  Toast  to  propose  —  I  smoth- 
ered the  shrieks  of  my  conscience  as  well  as  I  could 
and  let  him  go  on. 

"Our  Benefactor."  They  both  looked  at  me,  with 
grateful  glittering  eyes.  "To  the  friend  who  has  proved 
himself  so  staunch  -  " 

"No  !"  I  interposed. 

"So  leal!" 


"So  unselfish!" 

"Oh!"  I  groaned,  "so  disinterestedly  generous!" 

"So  sincere,  true,  untiring  and  noble  in  his  efforts  on 
my  —  on  our  behalf.  I  drink  to  him,  and  you,  my  dear 
girl  -  " 

"I  drink  to  him  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Gwendollen. 

I  writhed  in  my  chair.  I  was  going  to  utter  something 
aloud,  but  Johnson-Williams  politely  prevented  me. 

"One  moment,  my  dear  Pegley.  Even  your  modesty" 
—  my  modesty?  —  "must  yield  to  my  desire  to  render 
praise  and  thanks  where  both  are  due.  From  the  first 
moment  of  our  acquaintance,  you  accorded  me  your 
sympathy  and  attention.  My  confidence  in  you  increased. 
I  made  your  bosom  —  if  I  may  say  so  —  the  Repository  of 
my  Aims.  When  I  triumphed  over  circumstances,  and 
freed  myself  from  trammels  —  which  nothing  on  earth 
would  ever  again  induce  me  to  unloose  —  my  first  thought, 


312  A  Sailor's  Home 


after  communicating  my  discovery  to  Gwendollen  was 
to  communicate  it  to  you.  You  heartily  congratulated 
me;  and  when  dreadful  Complications  ensued — when, 
lost  and  wandering,  I  appealed  to  you  for  help  and  guid- 
ance, you  nobly  responded  to  the  appeal. 

"While  I  live,  my  dear  Pegley,  I  shall  never  forget 
how  many  miles  you  walked  in  search  of  Doctor 
George — whom  you  afterwards  discovered  in  the  per- 
son of  the  bibulous  blackguard,  Professor  Pargeter,  or 
how  many  falsehoods  you  burdened  your  upright  con- 
science with,  in  the  endeavours  to  conceal  my  unfor- 
tunate position  from  the  Heads  of  the  Office,  to  which 
I  return,  with  renewed  energy,  upon  next  Monday 
week." 

He  sipped  a  little  of  the  glassful  of  gas  and  grape-juice 
he  held,  and  continued:  "In  the  supreme  agony  of  the 
conviction  that  I  was  wasting  away,  undiscovered" — he 
glanced  at  his  left  hand  and  felt  his  right  ear — "you  were 
my  consoler.  It  was  you  who  engaged  to  meet  Gwen- 
dollen at  the  Railway  Station ;  it  was  you  who  hit  upon 
a  perfectly  original  and  successful  plan  of  diverting  her 
mind  from  my  unhappy  self,  by  inventively  persuading 
her  that  I  was  unworthy  of  her  regard — in  the  matter 
of  Sankaracharya — ha,  ha,  ha!  and  proceeding  to  make 
love,  feigned  love,  to  her  yourself.  Then,  having  picked 
a  quarrel  with  me — and  your  acting  on  the  occasion  does 
you  credit,  my  dear  fellow !  though  I  never  did  believe 
that  you  could  contemplate  the  perpetration  of  anything 
villainous! — you  pursued  your  researches  undisturbed; 
discovered  me,  and  took  immediate  steps  to  restore  me  to 
myself  and  Gwendollen.  It  is  owing  to  your  forethought, 
boldness  and  sagacity,  that  I  escaped  from  that  abomin- 
able captivity,  sound  in  mind  and  limb,  and  moreover, 
with  a  handsome  sum  of  ready  money — in  small  silver — 
honestly  earned,  too!  Words  fail,  my  dear  Pegley" — 
he  grasped  me  warmly  by  one  hand,  while  Gwendollen 


The  Man  Who  Lost  Himself  313 

slid  her  little  fingers  into  the  other — "to  express  our 
united  gratitude  to  you.  We  can  only  say  with  one 
voice — being  one  flesh  at  last — good  friend,  God  bless 
you!" 

Then  we  broke  up  the  little  party,  and  Johnson-Will- 
iams proudly  paid  the  bill  and  tipped  the  waiter,  and  I 
saw  the  happy  couple  off  from  St.  Paul's  Station  en 
route  for  Margate,  where,  you  will  perhaps  remember, 
I  had  already  engaged  rooms. 

Well,  well !  Their  married  life  has  been  a  very  happy 
one.  Johnson-Williams  has  abandoned  Theosophic 
Buddhism,  and  attained  the  eminent  position  of  work- 
ing partner  in  the  old  office  where  once  he  kept  the 
books.  I  have  long  started  on  my  own  account  in  the 
ship-broking  business  line,  and  command  the  services  of 
three  clerks  and  a  boy.  Clients  flock  to  me.  I  have 
a  reputation  for  honesty  in  all  my  dealings.  So  much 
so,  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  once  in  my 
life,  for  several  days  together,  I  was  an  absolute 
scoundrel. 


XIII 
THE  RECTOR'S  DUTY 


IT  was  Monday  morning,  and  the  Reverend  Aloysius 
Cottle,  B.A.,  of  Caleb  College,  Cambridge,  was 
kneeling,  very  red  in  the  face,  upon  the  prostrate  body 
of  a  plethoric  portmanteau.  Mrs.  Mivitts,  the  gouty  el- 
derly landlady  of  the  quiet  Gower  Street  apartments, 
knocked  upon  the  panel  of  his  combined  bedchamber 
and  sitting-room  with  the  largest  of  her  chalkstones. 

"Come  in,"  cried  Reverend  Aloysius.  On  Mrs. 
Mivitts'  partially  obeying  the  command,  and  explaining 
that  a  person  wanted  to  see  him: — 

"A  lady?"  he  asked  anxiously,  his  eye — he  had  a  fine 
eye*— wandering  around  the  room  as  though  in  search 
of  opportunities  for  concealment. 

"Sir,  to  be  frank  with  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Mivitts, 
settling  her  thread  mittens,  "it's  a  gentleman." 

"Tell  the  gentleman,"  said  the  Reverend  Aloysius, 
after  hastily  rummaging  amongst  his  collection  of  truth- 
ful evasions,  "tell  the  gentleman,  please,  that  Mr.  Cottle 
is  particularly  engaged  just  now,  but  that  after  six 
o'clock  he  will  be  quite  at  liberty."  He  added  to  him- 
self:  "Which  is  quite  true,  because  I  leave  Victoria  by 
four  o'clock  train  for  Dover,  and  by  six  o'clock  the 
white  cliffs  of  Albion  will  be  fading  in  the  steamer's 
wake.  And  if  I  am  not  at  liberty  then — when  I  shall 


The  Rector's  Duty  315 

have  left  all  my  worries  behind  me  for  six  weeks — when 
shall  I  be  at  liberty?" 

He  gave  another  tug  at  the  strap,  and  Mrs.  Mivitts 
lingered.  Her  triangular  face,  of  the  shape  and  colour 
of  a  pound  of  pale  American  cheese,  and  her  spare  and 
flattened  form  remained  wedged  between  the  door  and 
the  door-jamb.  Looking  at  his  widowed  landlady  more 
closely,  the  Reverend  Aloysius  became  aware  that  she 
was  simpering,  and  that  her  cap  was  disarranged.  In- 
stantly, before  Mrs.  Mivitts  had  time  to  utter  the  fra- 
ternal word,  he  realised  that  the  visitor  must  be  his 
brother,  and  his  decidedly  handsome  countenance  became 
overshadowed  with  foreboding  gloom. 

"It  is — ah — Mr.  Alaric?"  he  began.  But  a  neat  half- 
gray  suede  glove  with  a  well-cut  coat-sleeve  attached 
glided  round  the  waist  of  Mrs.  Mivitts,  causing  the 
simper  to  develop  into  an  hysterical  giggle,  and  over  the 
summit  of  Mrs.  Mivitts'  cap  appeared  a  face  exactly 
like  the  face  of  the  Reverend  Aloysius,  only  that  it  was 
adorned  with  a  waxed  moustache  instead  of  an  expres- 
sion of  waxy  sanctity,  and  a  high,  loud,  lively  voice — 
the  voice  of  the  Reverend  Aloysius,  deprived  of  its  Gre- 
gorian snuffle  or  Anglican  drawl,  exclaimed : 

"It  is,  my  bucko,  and  that's  a  fact!" 

"You — ah!  can  go,  Mrs.  Mivitts,"  remarked  the  Rev- 
erend Aloysius  coldly.  He  looked  on  with  strong  dis- 
approval as  Alaric  released  the  widow  from  his  embrace, 
urging  upon  her  not  to  promise  herself  again  in  mar- 
riage before  the  urger  came  downstairs.  Then  he  said 
snappishly : 

"Why  do  you  come  here?  What  do  you  want?  If 
it  is  money,  I  haven't  got  it  to  lend.  I  urgently  need  a 
holiday — I  am  about  to  take  one — and  every  pound  I 
can  scrape  goes  into  that.  I  should  have  supposed  that 
our  late  poor  Uncle  Digby " 

"Digby  was  short  of  chips  himself,  poor  old  boy!" 


316  A  Sailor's  Home 


said  Alaric  cheerfully.  He  leaned  his  broad  shoulders 
against  the  doorpost,  tilted  back  his  chin,  and  thrusting 
his  hands  deep  down  into  his  pockets  looked  down  upon 
his  clerical  twin-brother,  as  Aloysius,  to  whom  indigna- 
tion had  imparted  strength,  sternly  strapped  the  port- 
manteau. "Diggy  had  been  going  to  the  Jews  all  his 
life,  and  when  Diggy  went  to  the " 

"Alaric!"  exclaimed  Aloysius  in  a  deep  tone  of  warn- 
ing. 

"To  the  Family  Vault  at  Woking" — supplied  Alaric — 
"there  wasn't  anything  left  for  his  adopted  boy." 

"At  any  rate  Lord  Digby  did  adopt  you,"  responded 
the  Reverend  Aloysius  angrily,  washing  his  hands,  "and 
he  settled  upon  you — I  had  the  information  from  your 
own  lips — a  sum  sufficient  to  bring  you  an  annual  in- 
come of  £500.  What  did  you  do  with  that?"  He  knew 
quite  well;  but  he  wished,  in  a  pious  kind  of  way,  to 
be  aggravating. 

"What  did  I  do  with  it?"  pondered  Alaric  aloud, 
dreamily  twisting  his  moustache.  He  closed  his  eyes  in 
the  effort  to  remember.  "Why  will  you  clever  fellows 
put  such  puzzlin'  questions?"  he  said  wearily,  opening 
his  eyes  again  to  encounter  his  twin's  indignant  glare. 

The  Reverend  Aloysius,  in  a  cold,  respectable  rage, 
thrust  himself  into  his  coat — a  long-tailed  High  Church 
garment  with  a  shy  retreating  collar,  and  brushed  his 
hair  as  another  man  might  have  sworn — to  relieve  his 
feelings. 

"I  did  not  invite  you  here  to  cross-examine  you,"  the 
young  clergyman  said,  putting  a  clean  handkerchief  in 
his  pocket  and  hastily  concealing  his  purse.  "I  have 
been  for  the  last  two  months  doing  duty  for  the  invalid 
Rector  of  Mangold  Wurzelfield,  who  is  taking  a  recuper- 
ative holiday  of  some  months'  duration  on  the  Riviera, 
and  now  I  am  going  for  a  Continental  trip  with — ; — " 

Alaric  winked  slightly. 


The  Rector's  Duty  317 

"With  clergyman's  sore  throat,  which  I  have  con- 
tracted through  over-exertion  in  the  pulpit,"  said  Aloy- 
sius,  getting  very  red.  "If  I  can  be  of  no  use  to  you, 
Alaric,  I  should  be  really  very  much  obliged  by  your 
leaving  me.  You  possess  a  very  large  circle  of  sporting 
acquaintances,  of  whose  society  I  should  not  like  to 
deprive  you,  and " 

"No  deprivation,  old  chap,"  returned  Alaric  simply. 
"It's  September — and  they're  all  out  o'  town." 

"Then  how  comes  it  that  you  are  in  town  in  Sep- 
tember?" queried  the  Reverend  Aloysius. 

"Because  town  in  September  is  the  last  place  where 
anybody  who  knows  anythin*  of  me  would  think  of 
lookin'  for  me,"  said  Alaric  lucidly.  "It's  necessary  for 
me  to  keep  dark  and  lie  low  for  a  bit,  if  you  must 
know." 

The  Reverend  Aloysius  snorted  scornfully.  "So  it 
has  come  to  this — that  you  must  hide  from  your  cred- 
itors !"  he  commented.  "I  thought  so !  I  thought  so !" 

"That's  where  you  parsons  are  generally  out  of  it," 
said  Alaric  with  some  disdain.  "You're  always  so  bally 
cocksure !  If  I  want  to  disappear  for  a  week  or  so,  it 
isn't  to  do  my  creditors  in  the  eye,  it's  to  pay  'em.  I've 
got  an  investment  which  is  simply  bound  to  turn  up 
trumps  before  a  fortnight's  over,  and  then  I  shall  be 
able  to  burst  upon  these  fellows  with  a  dazzling  offer 
of  nine-pence  in  the  pound." 

"Some  gambling  Turf  venture,  I  suppose,"  sneered 
Aloysius. 

"Out  of  it  again!"  said  Alaric  with  calm  triumph. 
"It's  nothin'  to  do  with  the  Turf,  though  I  won't  go  so 
far  as  to  say  it  isn't  gamblin'.  A  friend  of  mine — a  chap 
who's  got  a  head  and  a  half  on  him — has  found  out  to 
a  dead  cert  the  vray  to  win,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  the 
game  they  call  the  petits  chevaux.  Homburg  and  Bou- 
logne and  Spa  and  Aix  .  .  .  you'll  find  the  sport  flour- 


318  A  Sailor's  Home 


ishin'  at  all  those  places.  And  I've  put  some  capital  in 
this  scheme,  and  he's  gone  to  carry  it  out — and  in  two 
months,  mark  my  words,  you'll  see  him  back  with  the 
bullion.  There's  no  end  to  that  chap." 

"There  will  not  be — yet,  I  daresay,"  assented  the  Rev- 
erend Aloysius  in  a  tone  which  predicted  hanging. 

"That's  your  narrow  clerical  way  of  lookin'  at  things," 
grumbled  Alaric.  "Never  give  a  layman  credit  for  com- 
mon decency!  If  you  parsons  are  better  than  other  men 
— and  you're  always  tellin'  us  so — you've  no  excuse  for 
braggin'  about  it.  It's  your  business — all  said  and  done. 
Piety  and  virtue  are  your  stock-in-trade.  Look  at  you 
now,  as  serene  and  self-satisfied  as  a  jackdaw  that's 
hidden  a  dog's  bone.  No  sympathy  about  you  for  other 
people's  troubles — no  allowances  for  their  shortcomin's. 
.  .  .  You  can't  even  realise  the  fact  that  it  would  be  an 
advantage  to  ...  many  another  bloke  besides  myself  to 
wipe  himself  out  of  existence  for  a  week  or  so,  to  be 
Somebody  Else  for  the  time  bein'  until  bothers  blow  over 
and  things  settle  down.  Not  you!  You  couldn't  for 
nuts!" 

The  Reverend  Aloysius  flushed  faintly,  and  opened  his 
mouth  and  shut  it  again,  looking  at  the  wall  and  not  at 
Alaric. 

"If  you  think  that  the  lives  of  the  clergy  are  free  from 
— ah! — anxiety,  you  are  painfully  mistaken,"  he  said. 
"They  are,  upon  the  contrary,  subjected  to  peculiar 
trials.  As  to  the  wish  you  have  just  expressed,  I  may 
own  that  while  I  should  have  conscientious  scruples 
against  shirking  my  responsibilities  in  the  manner  you 
suggest,  I  should  be  absolutely  alive  to  the  advantage  of 
being  able  to  do  so  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one 
month." 

"You  mean  that  you  actually  wish  you  could  wipe 
yourself  out  of  existence  for  a  month?"  cried  Alaric. 

"I  do  mean  it !"  said  Aloysius  firmly. 


The  Rector's  Duty  319 

"Sorry  to  intrude,  but  here's  a  tellygramp,  sir!"  said 
Mrs.  Mivitts,  who  had  knocked  until  she  was  weary 
and  now  entered  with  a  yellow  envelope.  The  Rev- 
erend Aloysius  opened  and  perused  the  communication 
with  marked  distaste.  Then  he  crumpled  it  into  a  ball, 
hurled  it  into  the  fireplace;  tucked  his  umbrella  under 
his  arm,  seized  his  travelling  bag,  overcoat  and  portman- 
teau, and  bidding  his  twin  brother  a  brief  farewell,  strode 
from  the  apartment  and  downstairs.  The  hall  door 
opened  and  shut — a  passing  taxicab  stopped  in  answer 
to  a  hail,  then  drove  away  with  the  Reverend  Al- 
oysius. .  .  . 

"Curious  beggars,  parsons!"  said  Alaric,  glancing  to- 
wards the  sideboard,  which  boasted  a  parched  lemon 
and  a  half -emptied  syphon  of  soda-water.  He  tried  the 
cupboard,  but  it  was  sternly  locked.  "Inhospitable  beg- 
gars, too !"  he  said  bitterly.  Then  he  strolled  to  the  win- 
dow, which  was  on  the  second-floor  front,  and  glancing 
down  into  Gower  Street  recognized  in  two  shabby  indi- 
viduals who  stood  leaning  against  the  railings  on  the  op- 
posite side — persons  whom  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  par- 
ticularly wished  to  avoid. 

"Confound  'em !"  he  ejaculated.  "They've  winded  me 
already.  Now,  if  I'd  had  any  decent  luck  they'd  have 
taken  old  Ally  for  me  in  clerical  disguise,  and  while  they 
were  paddlin'  after  his  taxi,  I  could  have  got  away.  We 
can't  be  as  alike  as  twins  ought  to  be — or  perhaps  it's 
my  moustache  that  makes  the  difference."  He  wheeled 
about  and  went  to  the  toilet-table,  and  covering  the  hir- 
sute ornament  with  his  hand,  gazed  at  himself  long  and 
earnestly.  "It  is  the  moustache!"  he  murmured,  as  his 
eye  fell  upon  a  patent  safety  razor  in  a  case,  which 
Aloysius  had  omitted  to  pack  away  or  lock  up.  An  at- 
tenuated stump  of  shaving  soap  lay  near  the  razor. 
Alaric  picked  it  up,  gazed  at  it  intently,  and  then  a 
strange  light  shone  in  his  eyes  and  the  determined  ex- 


320  A  Sailor's  Home 


pression  which  came  over  his  face  made  him  very  like 
Aloysius.  "By  the  living  Jingo,  I'll  do  it!"  he  said.  He 
went  to  the  sideboard,  filled  a  tumbler  with  soda  from 
the  syphon,  dipped  in  the  soap,  improvised  a  lather,  and 
...  in  another  minute  the  handsome  hairless  face  of 
the  Reverend  Aloysius  was  reflected  in  the  toilet  mirror 
over  the  fashionable  collar  and  dandy  necktie  of  Alaric, 
the  Man  About  Town.  .  .  . 

"You  thought  I'd  looked  you  up  to  borrow  money," 
said  Alaric,  addressing  the  face  in  the  glass,  "but  you 
were  wrong.  I'm  only  going  to  borrow  your  lodgings 
and  your  landlady,  and  your  Christian  name  and  your 
clerical  clothes — I  suppose  you've  left  some  of  'em  be- 
hind you " 

He  went  to  the  wardrobe,  which  was  firmly  fastened 
with  a  cheap  lock.  "Blood's  thicker  than  water,"  he 
murmured  as  he  produced  his  own  bunch  of  keys,  "and 
you  can  hardly  be  had  up  for  burglin*  your  own  twin 
brother."  He  looked  into  the  well-stocked  wardrobe  and 
smiled.  "He's  gone  away  in  his  oldest  togs  and  left  the 
swell  ones  behind,"  Alaric  said  contentedly.  "Ally  was 
always  such  a  careful  old  chap !"  And  then  he  selected 
garments  and  made  a  complete  change.  The  transfor- 
mation was  just  complete,  the  giddy  butterfly  had  been 
changed  into  a  handsome  young  grub,  and  the  worldly 
garb  of  Alaric  Cottle  had  just  been  put  away  in  the 
wardrobe,  when  there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  room 
door. 

"Come  in!"  said  Alaric,  reluctantly  quitting  the  look- 
ing-glass as  a  short  little  red-headed  gentleman  in  em- 
phatic check  tweeds  darted  into  the  room. 

"Mercy  upon  me,  Cottle,"  cried  the  red-headed  gentle- 
man, falling  upon  Alaric  and  shaking  him  violently  by 
both  hands,  "how  fortunate  that  I  insisted  upon  coming 
upstairs !  They  said  you  had  gone  away  in  a  taxi ;  I  in- 
sisted that  you  wouldn't  dream  of  going  without  leaving 


The  Rector's  Duty  321 

a  letter  for  me — and  instead  of  finding  the  letter,  I  find 
yourself !  My  dear  friend !" 

"We  are  evidently  old  pals,"  thought  Alaric.  "I'd 
better  shake  hands  again!"  and  he  did. 

"You  guess  why  I'm  here?"  said  the  little  gentleman, 
blowing  his  nose.  "My  dear  Cottle,  the  Rector  has  re- 
lapsed again,  and  no  one  but  yourself  can  help  us  in  the 
emergency.  I  received  a  cable  from  Monte  Carlo  yes- 
terday to  say  that  it  is  imperative  that  his  cure  should 
be  prolonged  for  another  three  weeks,  or  a  month  and 
urgently  asking  for  funds.  His  system  is  weaker  than 
we  feared,  Cottle,  considerably  weaker!" 

"Systems  are  all  my  eye  at  roulette,"  said  Alaric,  "and 
if  he's  been  puntin'  on  principle  no  wonder  if  he's  cleaned 
out."  He  stopped  because  the  red-headed  little  gentle- 
man was  looking  rather  puzzled.  Then  he  said  affably, 
"But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  what  I  can  do  for  you,  you 
know." 

"Come  back  and  reassume  the  duty,  Cottle,"  said  the 
little  gentleman,  clasping  his  hands  upon  the  top  of  his 
umbrella.  "No  more  unpleasant  things  will  be  said  about 
the  intoning,  and  if  Bulpit  brings  up  the  question  of  the 
flower-vases  and  banners  at  any  future  Vestry-meeting, 
he  shall  be  pulverised.  And — you  grumbled  at  two 
guineas  a  week  because  of  the  size  of  the  parish.  I  have 
consulted  Mrs.  Mantowler  and  Squire  Halkett,  and  we 
are  prepared  to  make  it  three.  So  come  back  to  duty, 
Cottle,  and  Mangold  Wurzelfield  will  welcome  you — my 
word  and  hand  upon  it!" 

Alaric  smiled  rather  foolishly. 

"I  know  why  you  hesitate,  Cottle,"  resumed  the  excit- 
able little  gentleman.  "But  Mrs.  Mantowler  has  been 
very  different  since  you  left,  quite  manageable — in  fact. 
Before,  I  grant  you,  she  was  a  Dragoness !  And  I  know 
her  interference  was  a  thorn  in  your  side.  But  she  has 
left  off  interfering — you  could  hardly  get  her  to  meddle 


322  A  Sailor's  Home 

now  if  you  tried,  she  was  so  tamed  by  your  spirited  ac- 
tion in  throwing  up  the  duty  last  week  and  going  back  to 
London  when  she  introduced  the  Swedish  Musical  Dumb- 
bell Exercises  into  the  Sunday  School  routine." 

"Was  that  why  we  quarrelled?"  asked  Alaric. 

"I  told  her  I  knew  you  would  have  forgotten  all  about 
it,  but  she  didn't  seem  so  sure,"  said  the  little  gentle- 
man, nodding.  "However,  she  owned  to  me  when  she 
saw  me  off  at  the  Junction  this  morning  that  she'd  sent 
you  a  telegram  of  apology.  She's  a  highly  educated 
woman  and  knows  how  to  do  the  proper  thing  in  the 
proper  way;  it's  bound  to  be  something  gratifying  and 
soothing.  Haven't  you  had  it?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  remember "  stammered  Alaric. 

"You're  always  absent-minded  on  Fridays,"  said  his 
visitor  admiringly.  "That's  what  started  the  story  about 
your  fasting.  And  Louisa  Brigg,  who  used  to  do  your 
washing,  made  things  worse  by  pretending  that  you  wore 
hair  undershirts.  But  Mrs.  Mantowler  set  that  right. 
She  said  they  were  only  Jaegers.  Isn't  that  a  crumpled 
telegram  lying  in  the  fireplace?" 

Red  Head  darted  at  it,  but  Alaric,  in  whom  the  quality 
of  caution  was  not  wanting,  got  it  before  him.  He  un- 
rolled the  crumpled  parallelogram  of  pink  paper  and 
glanced  at  it.  The  message  ran  thus: 

"Come  back  or  will  tear  the  mask  from  your  false  face 
and  all  shall  know  you  for  a  villain. — LAVINIA." 

"This  is  hardly  gratifyin'  or  even  soothin',"  thought 
Alaric.  "Perhaps  it's  from  another  friend — not  Mrs. 
What's-her-name?" 

"You  wouldn't  care  to  let  me  see  that  wire?"  insin- 
uated the  little  red-headed  man. 

"I  don't  think  I  should,  quite,"  replied  Alaric  cau- 
tiously. 


The  Rector's  Duty  323 

"Not  in  Mrs.  Mantowler's  own  interests  ? — to  prove  to 
the  Vestry,  should  the  question  be  mooted  hereafter,  that 
she  had  done  the  proper  thing?" 

Alaric  shook  his  head. 

"Or,  leaving  me  out  of  consideration  as  a  Parish  Trus- 
tee and  Vestryman  and  looking  at  me  merely  as  Peter 
Turbeyson,  her  husband's  cousin  and  her  own  co-lega- 
tee," hinted  the  visitor,  "wouldn't  you  think  it  proper 
to ?" 

Alaric  intimated  that  he  wouldn't. 

"Then  give  me  your  hand  and  pack  your  portmanteau 
and  come  back  with  me  by  the  next  train  to  Mangold 
Wurzelfield,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson  with  ap- 
parent heartiness.  "We're  all  ready  to  welcome  you,  if 
we  are  a  'pack  of  riotous  fox-hunters/  " 

"Are  you  though?"  exclaimed  Alaric. 

"You  called  us  so  yourself, — or  somebody  said  you 
did,"  said  Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson.  "But  we  overlook  it 
on  account  of  your  not  being  a  man  to  ride  yourself." 

"But  I  am,"  said  Alaric. 

Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson's  eyes  became  circular  in  shape. 

"Eh?" 

"I  am  not  a  man  to  ride  myself,"  said  Alaric,  "be- 
cause I  never  tried.  But  I  am  a  man  to  ride  a  horse — 
and  pretty  straight  too,  I  can  tell  you !" 

"Why,  bless  my  soul,  Cottle!"  cried  the  bewildered 
Mr.  Turbeyson,  "we  all  thought  hunting  was  dead 
against  your  principles." 

"Did  you  ever  offer  me  a  mount,  old  chap?"  said 
Alaric,  clapping  the  parish  magnate  familiarly  on  the 
back. 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Turbeyson  shortly,  "I  can't  say  I 
ever  did!" 

"You  shall,"  said  Alaric,  "before  we  are  a  week 
older!" 

"He's  changed  his  tactics,"  reflected  Mr.  Peter  Turbey- 


324  A  Sailor's  Home 

son,  glancing  out  of  the  corners  of  his  little  pink  eyes  at 
the  young  clergyman.  "Going  to  play  the  tolerant  game, 
hang  him !"  But  he  said  aloud,  genially : 

"I'll  be  off  now,  and  leave  you  to  your  packing.  Meet 
me  at  Victoria  seven  o'clock  sharp,  and  I'll  take  you 
down  by  the  Sussex  Express."  He  turned  on  his  heel  as 
he  got  to  the  door,  and  said  in  rather  a  marked  way: 
"Geraldine  will  be  glad  to  welcome  you  again.  I  think 
she  realises  that  she  acted  hastily,  and  will  soon  discover 
that  she  has  misjudged  you." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  she  will !"  said  Alaric  warmly.  When 
the  door  closed  behind  Mr.  Turbeyson  he  added  as  he 
drew  the  crumpled  telegram  from  his  pocket  and  again 
perused  its  contents :  "I  wonder  which  I  shall  like  best, 
being  welcomed  by  Geraldine  or  unmasked  by  Lavinia? 
Upon  my  soul,  my  reverend  brother  has  been  goin'  it 
strong  down  at  Mangold  Wurzelfield!  No  wonder  he 
talked  about  the  life  of  a  clergyman  bein'  full  of  peculiar 
trials!" 

And  with  a  running  commentary  of  conjectures  which 
would  have  caused  the  blood  of  the  Reverend  Aloysius 
to  creep,  Alaric  rummaged  out  a  kit-bag  from  under  the 
bed  and  stowed  into  it  such  articles  of  underclothing  as 
he  thought  he  should  require.  "I  shall  telegraph  to  my 
landlady  at  Tuke  Street,"  he  reflected,  "and  tell  her  to 
send  a  bag  of  socks  and  underwear  to  care  of  the  Rev- 
erend Aloysius  Cottle  at  Mangold  Wurzelfield.  For 
whether  Lavinia  is  right  about  the  Jaegers  or  not, — and 
I  wonder  how  she  got  her  information? — I'm  hanged  if 
I'm  going1  to  wear  'em !"  said  Alaric. 

n 

Thursday  had  come  round,  and  in  the  neat,  lavender- 
smelling,  chintzy  parlour  of  the  Rectory  at  Mangold 
Wurzelfield,  Alaric  was  sitting  at  breakfast.  A  small  but 


The  Rector's  Duty  325 

noisy  church  bell  was  clanging  away  persistently  close 
by. 

"Dash  that  bell!"  said  Alaric,  chipping  his  third  egg, 
"it  gets  on  my  nerves !"  He  glanced  up  and  encountered 
the  blank  stare  of  the  curate,  Mr.  Choom,  who  had  called 
in  upon  business  connected  with  the  parish. 

"It's  tolling  for  old  Mrs.  Tradgett,"  said  Mr.  Choom, 
withdrawing  his  large  watery  eyes  from  Alaric's  with 
obvious  difficulty.  "You  bury  her  this  morning,  you 
know !" 

"Do  I?"  Alaric's  face  fell,  and  he  pushed  away  the 
unfinished  egg  and  drank  his  coffee  hastily.  "Do  you 
know,  Choom,  old  chap,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "that 
you  would  oblige  me  very  much  by  doin'  it  instead.  If 
it  came  to  pinch,  I  dare  say  I  could  bury  a  live  person, 
but  buryin'  a  dead  one  is  beyond  me." 

"I  could  perform  the  duty  if  you  would  undertake  the 
house-visiting  in  my  place,"  said  Mr.  Choom  after  reflec- 
tion. "There  are  three  bedridden  old  women  at  Acre 
Lane  to  be  read  to,  and  the  members  of  the  Coal  and 
Blanket  Club  have  a  general  meeting  at  the  Recreation 
Room  on  the  Goose  Green." 

"I'll  see  you!"  said  Alaric  absently,  "I  mean  ...  I 
take  the  old  women  and  the  blankets."  He  drew  out  his 
cigar-case  as  he  spoke  and  selected  a  choice  cheroot. 

"Dear  me !  you  have  changed  your  views  with  regard 
to  smoking!"  said  Mr.  Choom  with  mild  surprise.  "I 
always  understood  that  you  abhorred  tthe  weed." 

"I  may  abhor  the  weed,"  said  Alaric,  lighting  one, 
"but  I  should  be  shirkin'  my  duty  if  I  hesitated  to — to 
smoke  at  the  instance  of  my — medical  man." 

"Oh !  I  see !"  said  the  enlightened  Choom.  "It's  nec- 
essary for  your  throat,  he  thinks,  and  so  you  do  it?" 

"And  so  I  do  it!"  echoed  Alaric  absently.  "By  the 
way,  have  you  noticed  a  lady  who  sits  in  tthe  front  pew 
on  the  left  side  of  the  chancel,  under  a  marble  effigy  with 


326  A  Sailor's  Home 


a  ruff  and  a  broken  nose?  At  least  she  sat  there  at 
Evening  Service  yesterday.  She  is  dark,  and  rather 
crummy — I  mean  the  lady,  not  the  effigy,  and  she 
wears  plenty  of  colours  and  looks  determined.  Who  is 
she?" 

"Why  .  .  .  don't  you  know  Mrs.  Mantowler  ?"  Choom 
asked  in  low  and  broken  tones,  "or — are  you  joking?" 

"Of  course  I  know  Mrs.  Mantowler,"  said  Alaric  com- 
posedly, "and  of  course  I  was  jokin'.  .  .  .  Don't  you 
know  me  by  this  time?" 

He  slapped  Mr.  Choom  gaily  on  the  back  and  the 
curate  reddened  to  the  ears. 

"I  certainly  thought  I  knew  you,  Mr.  Cottle !"  he  said, 
with  marked  stress  upon  the  third  word.  "But  since — 
since  your  arrival  upon  the  afternoon  of  Monday  last,  I 
will  candidly  confess — I  have  been  mistaken." 

Alaric,  who  was  pouring  a  liqueur  of  brandy  out  of  a 
silver  pocket  flask  into  a  clean  egg-cup,  turned  round 
sharply. 

"Why  mistaken  ?"  he  demanded. 

"If  I  must  speak  out  I  must !"  said  Choom,  with  beads 
of  perspiration  breaking  out  all  over  his  knobby  forehead. 
"You  weren't  like  yourself  on  Wednesday  evening — you 
behaved  as  queerly  as  could  be — and  the  whole  parish  is 
agog  about  it." 

"Let  the  parish  mind  its  own  business,"  said  Alaric 
defiantly. 

"That's  just  what  the  parish  is  doing,"  said  Mr.  Choom, 
plucking  up.  "There's  Mrs.  Tradgett's  bell  stopping  at 
the  ninety-third  stroke.  I  must  go  and  get  my  surplice 
on." 

"Let  Mrs.  Tradgett  keep  a  little,"  said  Alaric,  getting 
between  Mr.  Choom  and  the  door.  "If  she's  waited 
ninety-three  years  to  be  buried,  a  few  minutes  won't 
make  any  difference  to  her.  I  want  to  hear  about  Wed- 
nesday evening." 


The  Rector's  Duty  327 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  you  bungled  the  Ritual  dread- 
fully," said  Mr.  Choom. 

"I'm  down  on  Ritualism,"  said  Alaric  promptly,  "like 
nails !" 

"Why,  you're  an  advanced  High  Churchman,"  cried 
the  astonished  Choom,  "or  you've " 

"Say  I  pretended  to  be,"  said  Alaric,  winking,  "and 
perhaps  you'll  be  right." 

"When  you  read  the  Lessons  you  didn't  know  when 
to  leave  off,"  said  the  curate.  "We  should  have  been 
listening,  and  you  would  have  been  reading  now — if  I 
hadn't  led  you  by  force  from  the  lectern." 

"That's  zeal,"  said  Alaric,  "and  ought  to  be  called  by 
its  proper  name.  What  else?" 

"Well,  you  didn't  begin  to  do  things  when  you  ought 
to  have  done  them,  and  when  I  went  to  do  them  for  you 
you  started  in  and  mixed  everything  up,"  continued  the 
curate,  wiping  his  streaming  brow:  "and  you  read  the 
Responses  right  through — never  gave  the  congregation 
the  ghost  of  a  chance.  ..." 

"And?"  interrogated  Alaric  freezingly. 

"And,"  continued  Mr.  Choom,  warming  with  his  recol- 
lections, "you  gave  the  Epistle  for  the  second  Sunday 
after  Doncaster,  and  I  must  say,  Mr.  Cottle " 

"Absence  of  mind,"  said  Alaric.  "Pure  absence  of 
mind !" 

"Even  though  the  announcement  was  made  uninten- 
tionally, sir,"  said  Mr.  Choom  weightily,  "the  effect  upon 
the  congregation  was  none  the  less  bad." 

"They  laughed,"  said  Alaric  doubtfully,  feeling  for  a 
moustache  that  was  not  there. 

"They  did  laugh,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Choom  bluntly.  "The 
hilarity  was  not  subdued  when  I  ascended  the  pulpit. 
It  broke  out  at  intervals  irrepressibly  throughout  my 
sermon." 

"Well,  if  they  could  find  anything  to  laugh  at  in  that, 


328  A  Sailor's  Home 

old  chap,"  said  Alaric,  smothering  a  yawn,  "they're  easily 
amused." 

He  let  Mr.  Choom  escape  and  strolled  out  into  the 
Rectory  garden.  "Choom  shall  coach  me  all  the  week," 
he  said  to  himself  with  determination.  "There  shall  be 
no  bungling  next  Sunday,  if  I  work  him  off  his  feet.  It'll 
be  my  turn  to  preach  then.  I  wonder  if  I've  got  the  pluck 
to  do  it,  or  if  I'd  better  have  a  cold?  Hi !  you  there !" 

He  addressed  an  ancient  man  in  moleskins  who  was 
digging  dandelions  out  of  the  lawn  with  a  dibble,  and 
the  ancient  man  came  shambling  towards  him,  fingering 
the  remnant  of  a  hat. 

"I  suppose  you  are  the  gardner,  old  chappie,"  said 
Alaric,  "and  know  all  about  everybody  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. If  you  can  tell  me  who  was  pitchin'  gravel  up  at 
my  bedroom  window  last  night  between  eleven-thirty  and 
twelve,  I'll  be  obliged  to  you!" 

The  ancient  man  rasped  his  thumb  upon  his  stubbly 
chin. 

"Maybe  'twer  a  sick  call,"  he  said  slowly,  "or  maybe 
'twer  a  ghost." 

"Ghost  be  smothered,"  said  Alaric  impatiently.  "How 
could  a  ghost  chuck  gravel  ?"  His  eyes  were  attracted  to 
the  neatly-clipped  garden  hedge,  above  the  top  of  which 
swiftly  glided  a  charming  female  head,  surmounted  by  a 
coquettish  hat  and  apparently  unattached  to  a  body. 
"If  that's  a  ghost,"  said  Alaric,  recovering  his  temper,  as 
the  head  bowed  and  smiled,  "it's  the  kind  I  don't  object 
to.  Who  is  the  young  lady?" 

"Ey?"  said  the  ancient  man,  opening  his  rheumy  eyes. 

"I  asked  the  name  of  that  young  lady!"  explained 
Alaric. 

"You  be  a-jokin' !"  said  the  gardener  with  a  cavernous 
grin.  Then  he  raised  a  horny  hand  and  pointed  to  the 
garden-gate.  "Miss  Geraldine  be  a-comin'  in !"  he  said 
simply. 


The  Rector's  Duty  329 

"So  this  is  Geraldine,"  reflected  Alaric,  as  the  owner  of 
the  charming  head  that  had  bowed  to  him,  easily  wheeling 
her  bicycle,  walked  towards  him  up  the  short  gravel  drive. 
"Perhaps  she  has  come  to  own  that  she  misjudged  me." 
And  he  hastened  to  meet  her,  wearing  his  brightest  smile. 

Miss  Geraldine  smiled  brightly,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"So  you  have  come  back  to  us  after  all !"  she  said  in  a 
pleasant  voice,  "though  you  said  you  never  would."  Her 
manner  was  tinged  with  coquetry. 

"When  a  man  has  been  cruelly  misjudged  by  a  woman 
whom  he  warmly  admires,"  said  the  ingenious  Alaric, 
diving  at  his  opportunity,  "he's  apt  to  form  rash  deter- 
minations. I  reconsidered  mine  in  cooler  blood,  and  as 
you  say,  I  have  come  back  to  you-^after  all !" 

"I  should  have  said — back  to  Mangold  Wurzelfield," 
explained  Miss  Geraldine,  frowning  slightly. 

"Ah,  but  you  said  the  other  thing  first,"  said  Alaric, 
throwing  into  his  smile  all  the  fascination  of  which  he 
was  capable. 

"How  wonderfully  changed  he  is!"  thought  Miss 
Geraldine.  "Well,"  she  said  aloud,  "I  must  be  going 
back  to  give  uncle  his  lunch.  Come  to  tea  at  four,  if  you 
can  spare  the  time  from  your  parish  duties."  As  Alaric 
eagerly  accepted  his  fair  visitor's  invitation,  the  even  beat 
of  a  pony's  trot  broke  upon  their  ears,  and  a  smart  dog- 
cart drawn,  by  a  neat  cob  and  driven  by  a  lady,  passed 
along  the  road  beyond  the  garden-hedge  and  vanished  in 
a  light  puff  of  dust. 

Alaric  recognised  in  the  driver  of  the  dog-cart  the  lady 
who  had  occupied  the  front  pew  on  the  left-hand  side  of 
the  chancel,  but  the  lady,  who  was  a  stout,  handsome 
brunette  of  forty,  did  not  appear  to  recognise  Alaric.  Her 
eyes,  which  were  large  and  black,  dealt  him  a  passing 
glance  of  stony  indifference.  Perhaps  her  lips  tightened 
as  her  regard  included  Mr.  Cottle's  companion,  but  her 
bright  complexion  underwent  no  change. 


33°  A  Sailor's  Home 


"Oh!"  ejaculated  Miss  Geraldine.  She  stamped  her 
small,  neatly  shod  foot  upon  the  close-cut  turf  and  flushed 
with  indignation.  "Did  you  see  that?  Why,  she  cut  us 
both — dead!"  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  lips 
quivered.  "Forgive  me,  Mr.  Cottle !"  she  said.  "I  seem 
fated  to  do  foolish,  ill-considered  things.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  I  never  knew  a  mother — because  my  stepmother 
and  my  uncle  have  been  too  indulgent.  ...  I  realise  now 
that  I  ought  not  to  have  stopped  as  I  cycled  past,  and 
that  my  having  been  detected  in  conversation  with  you 
will  give  rise  to  fresh  annoyance.  ..."  Her  clear  eyes 
overflowed,  she  searched  for  her  handkerchief.  Before 
Alaric  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  taken  the  foolish 
little  square  of  cambric  out  of  her  hand,  and  wiped  away 
the  shining  drops  that  chased  each  other  down  the  charm- 
ing cheeks  of  the  young  girl. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  said  bravely.  "I  would  bear  more 
than  that — willingly — for  you." 

"But  you  ought  not  to  say  so,"  said  Miss  Geraldine 
warmly.  "She  is  my  friend — at  least  she  was  until  a 
few  weeks  ago,  and  I  would  not  grieve  or  wound  her  for 
the  world!  You  believe  me,  don't  you?" 

"Indeed  I  do !"  said  Alaric  warmly.  "And  would  you 
mind  tellin'  me  who  you  mean  by  'she'?" 

"Are  you  joking?"  cried  Geraldine,  opening  her  blue 
eyes  widely.  "Why,  who  should  I  mean  but  Lavinia 
Mantowler?" 

"Was  that  Lavinia?"  exclaimed  Alaric. 

"How  can  you  make  a  jest  of  her?"  said  Geraldine, 
"after  all  that  has  passed?  You,  who  owned  just  now 
that  you  warmly  admired  her,  and  that  to  be  misjudged 
by  her  was  enough  to  drive  you  to  a  rash  determination !" 
Her  eyes  shot  blue  fire. 

Alaric  drew  himself  to  his  full  height.  "Pardon  me," 
he  said  coldly,  "it  is  you  who  are  jesting.  The  woman 
who  misjudged  me  and  whose  undeserved  scorn  drove 


The  Rector's  Duty  331 

the" — he  hesitated — "the  iron  into  my  soul,  was  Geral- 
dine.  Geraldine,  who  afterwards  realised  that  she  acted 
hastily  and  who — let  her  deny  it  if  she  will " 

"Stop!"  cried  Geraldine,  as  Alaric  was  pounding  on. 
"Be  generous,  Mr.  Cottle!  Say  no  more!" 

She  was  in  earnest,  for  her  cheeks  were  pale  and  her 
hand  trembled  so  that  Alaric  took  it  in  his  own. 

"All  right,  I'll  hold  my  tongue !"  he  said  heroically. 

"I  too  will  try  to  be  generous,"  said  Geraldine.  "I 
will  try  to  think  that  when  you  allowed  yourself  to  be  so 
far  carried  away  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment — I  refer 
for  the  first  and  last  time  to  the  Eve  of  the  Harvest  Festi- 
val when  we  were  garlanding  the  pulpit  with  tomatoes 
and  hop-vine — as  to  tell  me  that  you  loved  me,  you  were 
not  so  base  as  to  triumph  over  the  admission  you  wrung 
from  my  lips.  I  will  believe  that  in  momentary  delirium, 
you  were  forgetful  of  the  sacred  pledere  that  you  had 
given  to  Lavinia  Mantowler." 

"Pledge!"  shouted  Alaric.  "Why,  I  never  spo — I 
never  pledged  anything  to  her  in  my  life.  We're  absolute 
strangers — I  mean — to  anything — of  the  kind  you  mean !" 

Geraldine  gazed  at  him  in  amazement.  "Then  she 
told  me  what  was  not  true !  Oh !  if  I  could  believe  that !" 
she  said  under  her  breath. 

"You  may  believe  it!"  said  Alaric  hotly. 

"You  say  it  as  a  clergyman?"  breathed  Geraldine. 

"I  say  it  as  the  whole  Bench  of  Bishops,"  he  retorted, 
"if  you  like!" 

"Then,"  said  Geraldine,  studying  her  machine  and 
placing  one  foot  upon  the  pedal,  as  a  rainbow  of  a  smile 
shone  through  the  tear  drops  that  yet  gemmed  her  lashes, 
"I  can  speak  frankly.  You  may  despise  me  for  it, 
but  .  .  ." 

"But?" 

"Please  let  go  the  handle-bar,"  said  Geraldine.  Then 
as  Alaric  obeyed  she  continued :  "You  were  not  the  only 


33 2  A  Sailor's  Home 

one  to  blame  ...  on  the  Eve  of  the  Harvest  Festival. 
When  you  .  .  .  kissed  me  in  the  pulpit.  ..." 

"Did  I?"  said  Alaric  eagerly.  "I  should  say  ...  I 
know  it  was  wrong,  but " 

" — 7  meant  you  to,"  said  Geraldine  softly,  and  shot 
away  like  an  arrow. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Alaric,  as  the  machine  with  its 
fair  rider  sped  down  the  road.  "No,  I'm  dashed  if  I 
am!"  he  continued  after  a  moment's  reflection.  "To 
throw  herself  at  the  head  of  a  muff  like  old  Ally  is  simple 
coquetry.  Still,  I  can't  believe  a  girl  like  that  would  go 
so  far  as  to  throw  gravel  at  windows !" 

He  set  out,  fortified  by  no  previous  knowledge  of  the 
locality,  upon  his  consoling  errand  to  the  bedridden  old 
women  of  Acre  Lane,  which  proved  to  be  a  damp  double- 
row  of  miserable  cottages  with  a  muddy  ditch  between 
them.  Alaric  had  forgotten  to  provide  himself  with 
religious  literature,  but  none  of  the  old  women  appeared 
to  mind.  He  left  behind  him  at  each  cottage  instead  of 
holy  precepts,  a  thin  deposit  of  silver,  and  more  than  one 
old  woman  to  whom  he  had  promised  a  bottle  of  real 
whisky  to  rub  on  her  joints,  vociferously  called  down 
blessings  on  his  head. 

He  encountered  a  few  people  as  he  returned  from  his 
errand  of  mercy,  having  forgotten  all  about  the  meeting 
of  the  Coal  and  Blanket  Club, — and  these  persons  saluted 
him  with  a  mingling  of  cordiality  and  reserve. 

"They're  thinkin'  about  Wednesday  evenin',"  said 
Alaric  to  himself,  and  so  they  were.  But  under  the  spell 
of  the  young  clergyman's  cheerfulness  doubts  were  for- 
gotten ;  and  Mrs.  Bindle  of  the  Manor  Farm  and  Colonel 
Crotch  of  The  Hawbitts  shook  hands  and  departed 
upon  their  respective  ways,  feeling  warmly  prepossessed 
in  favour  of  Mr.  Cottle. 

"Only  wanted  knowing!"  the  Colonel  said,  as  he 
whistled  to  his  dogs,  and  resumed  his  constitutional. 


Tta  Rector's  Duty  333 

"And  here  have  I  been  for  weeks  on  end,  shunning,  posi- 
tively shunning  the  sight  of  that  young  fellow!  'A 
canting  Ritualist'  I  called  him.  Well,  if  all  Ritualists 
know  as  much  about  mange  in  setters  as  that  chap  .  .  . 
or  tell" — he  chuckled  hoarsely — "a  good  story  with  as 
much  point,  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  'em  down  here,  that's 
all!" 

"Who'd  have  dreamed,  Mar,  of  you  asking  Mr.  Cottle 
to  tea !"  giggled  Miss  Bindle,  as  her  mother  clicked  to  the 
broken-kneed  old  pony  that  drew  the  Manor  Farm 
governess-cart,  and  Alaric's  parting  smile  left  reflected 
radiance  in  the  puddles.  "After  all  the  things  you've 
called  him,  too!" 

"I  was  hasty,  Maria,  and  I  own  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bindle. 
"Though  when  I  met  him  first,  he  looked  as  glum  as 
yellow  soap  and  held  his  nose  in  the  air  over  my  head  as 
though  he  couldn't  afford  to  breathe  on  the  same  level. 
But  since  he's  come  back  he's  as  affable  and  polite  as  if 
he'd  been  away  to  be  inoculated  for  civility.  And  remind 
me  to  make  a  whipped-cream  for  Saturday,  and  get  out 
the  best  quince-marmalade." 

"Hang  it  all !"  ejaculated  Alaric,  stopping  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  as  Mrs.  Bindle  uttered  these  hospitable  direc- 
tions, "it's  close  on  four  o'clock,  and  Geraldine  asked  me 
to  tea.  What  a  duffin'  silly  thing  of  me  not  to  have  asked 
her  what  her  surname  was  and  where  she  lived?  The 
thought  did  occur,  but  I  shied  at  doin'  it.  And  now  .  .  . 
Hallo!" 

He  jumped  out  of  the  way  as  a  vehicle  rattled  round 
the  corner  of  the  muddy  green  lane  in  which  he  stood. 
The  cob  shied,  the  charioteer  (a  lady)  pulled  up  smartly, 
and  Alaric  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  handsome 
Mrs.  Mantowler.  She  bent  her  dark  eyes  full  upon 
Alaric's  with  a  look  of  fiery  indignation,  and  Alaric,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  took  off  his  hat  with  his  best 
manner. 


334  •&•  Sailor's  Home 


Mrs.  Mantowler  spoke,  after  a  strong,  emotional  pause. 
''Man !"  she  uttered  in  deep  accents,  "do  you  know  that 
you  have  made  me  hate  you?" 

"Don't  say  that !"  said  Alaric  coaxingly. 

"I  told  you  in  my  telegram,"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler, 
"that  if  you  did  not  return  you  would  be  a  villain !" 

"So  you  did !"  said  Alaric,  thinking  that  the  mild  name 
of  "Lavinia"  was  singularly  unsuited  to  the  stormy  lady 
who  bore  it. 

"Now  that  you  have  returned,  it  is  to  play  the  part 
of  a  traitor!"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler,  nervously  gripping 
her  driving-whip.  "Did  not  I  see  you  with  Geraldine 
this  morning?" 

"I  must  soften  her  down  somehow,"  thought  Alaric. 
Aloud  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty:  "Lavinia!  why 
can't  you  be  just  to  me?" 

Mrs.  Mantowler  burst  into  a  mocking  laugh.  "If  I 
treated  you  with  justice  I  should  lash  you  from  here  to 
the  village,"  she  said,  a  dangerous  light  in  her  black  eyes. 
"Tell  Geraldine  Halkett  so  from  me!" 

"I  would — if  I  knew  where  she  lived,"  said  Alaric 
bluntly.  Mrs.  Mantowler  stared  at  him  fiercely. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  not  constantly  visit 
at  Wychwood?" 

"Never  been  into  the  house  in  my  life!"  said  Alaric 
with  truth,  making  a  mental  note  of  the  address. 

"I  would  give  worlds  to  believe  you !"  said  Mrs.  Man- 
towler, almost  in  Geraldine's  own  words.  "But  at  any 
rate  you  will  not  deny  that  you  are  intimate.  You  will 
not  pretend  that  on  the  Eve  of  the  Harvest  Festival " 

"Ah,  you're  thinking  of  the  kissing  in  the  pulpit,"  said 
Alaric  unguardedly. 

"You  would  deny  that,  I  suppose,  if  I  had  not  myself 
witnessed  the  outrage !"  sneered  the  angry  lady. 

"Outrage!  I  like  that!"  said  Alaric.  "Why,  she 
meant  me  to!  She  said  so!" 


The  Rector's  Duty  335 

"The  barefaced  flirt!"  cried  Mrs.  Mantowler. 

"And  whether  a  man  is  a  parson  or  isn't  a  parson,  when 
a  pretty  girl  gives  him  a  lead,  he  is  bound  to  follow!" 
continued  Alaric. 

"Men  are  weak  creatures!"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler 
gloomily.  "Aloysius!"  Alaric  jumped  at  the  name. 
"Perhaps  I  have  been  hard  on  you — unjust  to  you " 

"Well,  takin'  things  all  the  way  round,  perhaps  you 
have!"  returned  Alaric,  feeling  again  for  the  moustache 
that  was  not  there. 

"At  any  rate,  Geraldine  shall  never  enter  my  doors 
again!"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler  firmly. 

"I  wonder  where  your  doors  are?"  thought  Alaric. 
But  he  pulled  out  his  watch  and  said : 

"It's  close  on  four.  Can  you  tell  me  a  short  cut  to 
Wychwood?" 

"Ah !  that  is  how  you  are  going  to  revenge  yourself !" 
cried  Mrs.  Mantowler,  bristling.  She  pointed  with  a 
trembling  whip  across  a  stile  on  the  left  of  the  road,  indi- 
cating a  field-path  leading  to  a  plantation-gate,  beyond 
which,  amidst  autumnal-tinted  trees,  rose  the  white 
chimneys  of  a  comfortable-looking  country-house.  "Go 
to  her!  You  have  my  full  permission!"  said  the  lady 
with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"Many  thanks !"  said  Alaric,  smiling  and  bowing.  Then 
he  leaped  the  stile.  The  sound  of  a  sob  caught  his  ear 
and  he  glanced  back  in  mid-air  to  see  Mrs.  Mantowler, 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  crying  heartily. 

"Upset,  poor  thing!"  he  thought,  and  had  the  impulse 
to  go  back  and  comfort  her,  but  it  struck  him  that 
Geraldine's  tea  must  be  getting  cold,  and  he  strode  hur- 
riedly away  in  the  direction  of  the  white  chimneys. 

"Oh,  why  was  I  born  to  be  the  victim  of  this  man's 
fatal  charm!"  moaned  the  weeping  Mrs.  Mantowler  as 
she  dried  her  eyes.  "I  thought  him  my  vassal — my 
trembling  serf.  I  meant  to  humble,  crush — quell  him! 


336  A  Sailor's  Home 

and  what  is  the  result?  He  deserts  me, — insults  and 
defies  me;  and — why  I  cannot  tell! — I  love  him  all  the 
better  for  it !" 

She  recovered  and  whipped  up  the  cob  as  Geraldine  put 
sugar  and  cream  in  Alaric's  cup.  He  spent  a  very  pleasant 
hour  or  two  at  Wychwood,  and  returned  to  the  Rectory 
to  dinner,  only  to  be  disturbed  at  the  outset  of  the  meal 
by  a  visitor  in  the  person  of  the  late  Mrs.  Tradgett's 
grandson,  a  sleek-headed  farmer,  desirous  of  obtaining  a 
reduction  in  the  customary  burial  fee  on  the  ground  that 
his  deceased  grandmother  had  been  interred  in  a  damp 
corner  of  the  churchyard. 

"Thankee  kindly,  sir!"  said  the  bereaved  relative 
heartily,  as  he  received  back  the  disputed  half-crown  out 
of  the  little  pile  of  moist  silver  he  had  placed  in  Alaric's 
unwilling  hand.  "You  be  a  gen'l'man,  you  be,  an'  for 
arl  folks  say,  I  wish  there  were  more  like  ye !" 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Alaric.  "Would  you  mind 
tellin*  me  what  folks  say?"  he  added  curiously. 

"They  say  as  ye  be  cracky  i'  th'  top-storey  since  ye 
came  back  from  Lunnon !"  said  Mr.  Tradgett,  wiping  the 
inside  of  his  crape-banded  white  hat  with  a  red  cotton 
handkerchief,  "an*  drat  me  if  I  doon't  think  there  mun 
be  some  truth  in  th'  tale  since  ye  giv'  me  back  that  half- 
crownd."  He  put  away  his  receipt  in  the  lining  of  the 
white  hat  before  putting  it  on  and  continued :  "Parsons — 
i'  their  wits — bain't  so  ready  to  leggo  o'  money  they've 
once  got  their  clawses  on.  Goo'-night,  sir !"  He  lumbered 
out. 

"This  is  gratitude  in  the  Rural  Districts !"  said  Alaric, 
as  he  went  back  to  his  cooling  dinner. 

He  sighed,  because  the  fowl,  with  its  homely  but 
savoury  accompaniments,  had  been  temptingly  hot  when 
Mr.  Tradgett  was  announced.  Hannah,  the  serving-maid, 
who  was  both  pretty  and  kind-hearted,  was  touched  by 
the  obvious  depression  of  her  young  pastor.  "You  mus'n't 


The  Rector's  Duty  337 

mind  him,  please,  sir !"  she  said.  "A  meaner  scrimp  than 
that  Joe  Tradgett  never  drawed  breath,  an'  as  for  grati- 
tude, if  you  was  to  kill  'n  wi'  kindness  he'd  never  thank 
ye !  An'  I  can  hot  up  the  pullet  in  a  minute  if  you'll  wait !" 

"You're  a  very  considerate  little  girl,"  said  Alaric, 
smiling  into  Hannah's  eyes  as  she  leant  over  to  take  the 
dish.  In  helping  her  to  raise  it  from  the  table  he  mixed 
up  his  hands  with  Hannah's,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  slight 
confusion  that  ensured  a  distinct  rap  sounded  upon  the 
glass  of  the  French  window,  which  was  so  thickly 
screened  with  Virginia  creeper  that  the  blind  was  seldom 
drawn. 

"Oh,  mussy !"  cried  Hannah,  turning  from  crimson  to 
pink — her  way  of  becoming  pale. 

"What  the  mischief  was  that?  Did  you  see  anything?" 
asked  Alaric. 

"No,  please,  sir!"  shuddered  Hannah.  "But  oh!  I 
think  it  was  the  ghost  that  rattles  and  scrapes  o'  nights !" 

"And  throws  gravel,  do  you  mean?"  said  Alaric  in- 
cautiously. 

"Cook  and  me  heard  it  again  last  night!"  quavered 
Hannah.  "Since  you  went  away  to  Lunnon  us  hadn't 
— but  now  you've  come  back  it's  beginned  again.  And 
oh!  I'm  afraid  o'  the  passages  when  my  blood  runs  cold 
like  this!" 

Alaric  encouraged  the  frightened  girl  as  best  he  could, 
begged  her  not  to  dilute  the  gravy  by  crying  into  it,  and 
at  last  escorted  her  as  far  as  the  kitchen,  carrying  the 
dish  himself.  But  Hannah's  alarm  had  infected  the  cook, 
for  the  fowl  came  back  in  an  unsatisfactory  condition  and 
the  bread-and-butter  pudding  which  followed  was  calcined 
to  uneatableness.  Perhaps  because  of  the  unsatisfactory 
nature  of  his  meal,  perhaps  owing  to  the  disturbed  con- 
dition of  his  mind,  Alaric,  when  he  at  length  retired  to 
rest,  wooed  slumber  in  vain.  He  tossed  and  turned  upon 
his  bed  for  an  hour,  and  then,  opening  his  eyes  sudden- 


338  A  Sailor's  Home 

ly,  sat  up.  There  was  no  mistake  about  the  sharp  crack- 
ling sound.  A  shower  of  gravel  had  been  thrown  at  his 
window.  He  slipped  out  of  bed  and  into  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  stealing  noiselessly  across  the  room,  lifted  the 
sash,  received  a  second  volley  full  in  his  face. 

"For  shame !"  came  from  below  in  a  deep  resonant 
whisper,  as  the  young  clergyman  spluttered  forth  an 
expression  but  little  in  keeping  with  his  reverend  calling. 
"How  can  you  disgrace  your  cloth  by  such  expressions  ?" 

"I  haven't  got  my  cloth  on!"  said  Alaric  wrathfully, 
"and  if  you  want  a  man  to  keep  his  temper,  you  shouldn't 
chuck  pebbles  down  his  throat,  whoever  you  are!"  He 
cleared  his  eyes  of  grit,  and  looked  down  into  the  garden, 
the  moon  was  concealed  by  clouds,  but  he  made  out  a 
dark  figure  standing  by  a  bush  immediately  beneath  the 
window. 

"Why  have  you  come  here  and  what  do  you  want?" 
he  asked. 

"Speak  lower,"  said  the  mysterious  visitant,  "unless 
you  want  to  rouse  the  servants,  and  as  quickly  as  you 
can  come  down  and  unbolt  the  little  side-door." 

"Who  are  you?  and  why  am  I  to  undo  the  little  side- 
door?"  asked  Alaric. 

"Do  you  wish  to  madden  me  to  frenzy?"  said  the 
unknown.  "Do  you  dare  to  deny  my  right  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  house  you  occupy  when  I  choose  to  exert 
that  right?  I  do  not  ask — I  command  you  to  come  down 
and  unbolt  the  little  side-door!" 

The  imperious  tone  reminded  Alaric  of  Mrs. 
Mantowler.  He  had  not  the  least  doubt  that  she  and 
this  mysterious  stranger  were  one.  He  leaned  out  into 
the  chilly  darkness  and  said  soothingly: 

"My  dear  lady,  do  go  home !" 

The  adjuration  had  not  the  pacifying  effect  Alaric  had 
intended.  His  visitor  uttered  a  kind  of  indignant  snort 
and  said: 


The  Rector's  Duty  339 

"This  has  decided  me.  I  came  to-night  to  give  you  a 
last  chance  to  explain  yourself  and  arrest  the  inevitable 
exposure.  But  now — as  I  stand  here  I  declare  I  will  be 
pitiless.  To-morrow " 

" — You  will  tear  the  mask  from  my  false  face  and  the 
world  shall  know  me  for  a  villain,"  said  Alaric.  "But 
the  world — or  as  much  of  it  as  you  can  conveniently  reach 
— is  in  bed  and  asleep  just  now — and  I  have  had  rather  a 
fatiguin'  day,  and  should  like  to  follow  other  people's 
example,  if  you  don't  mind ?" 

"Ah,  you  think  to  brave  me!"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler, 
"and  Geraldine  is  in  the  plot — or  else  you  have  deceived 
her.  But  I  will  let  her  know  that  my  self-respect  is  more 
to  me  than  money.  Let  her  take  it — let  her  take  it  all ! 
But  you  she  cannot  take  with  it — for  you  are  mine! 
Mine ! — and  the  struggle  between  us  will  be  to  the  death ! 
Now  go  to  bed,  and  sleep — if  you  can.  Good-night!" 

She  turned  to  go. 

"Night-night!"  said  Alaric.     "Oh!  Lavinia!" 

"Yes!"  she  said  shortly  and  sternly,  halting  in  her 
stride. 

"I  suppose  it  was  you  who  did  the  gravel-throwin'  last 
night,  eh?"  hinted  Alaric. 

"I  will  admit  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler.  "I  came, 
thinking  to  find  you  humbled  and  repentant — I  did  not 
dream  that  you  were  capable  of  the  brazen  effrontery — 
the  revolting  hypocrisy  which  I  now  know  you  can  com- 
mand at  will.  But  though  you  triumph  to-night,  be  sure 
of  this — you  will  not  triumph  to-morrow!" 

She  was  gone,  with  the  Delphic  utterance.  As  Alaric 
turned  to  grope  back  through  the  darkness  to  his  couch, 
he  .found  that  he  had  forgotten  where  it  was.  Finally, 
after  stumbling  in  rapid  succession  over  a  fender  and  a 
chair ;  after  having  been  brought  up  sharp  by  the  corner 
of  a  chest  of  drawers, — after  having  firmly  wedged  the 
burner  of  a  gas-bracket  into  the  socket  of  his  left  eye  and 


34°  A  Sailor's  Home 

stepped  into  the  bath  of  cold  water  that  stood  ready  for 
the  morning,  Alaric  found  a  match  and  struck  it,  and  the 
bed  at  the  same  moment.  The  light  showed  him  a  photo- 
graph of  the  Reverend  Aloysius  hanging  on  the  opposite 
wall.  He  had  never  entertained  a  particularly  high 
opinion  of  his  brother,  but  he  was  sensible  that  Aloysius 
had  risen  several  degrees  in  his  estimation. 

"Two  women — both  attractive — one  charmin'!"  he 
murmured,  "pullin'  caps  over  him.  And  one  calls  in  the 
mornin'  and  one  wakes  him  out  of  his  beauty-sleep  by 
throwing  gravel  and  demanding  explanations.  Upon  my 
word,  Ally,  for  a  parson  you  have  been  goin'  it,  my  boy ! 
And  Hannah  seemed  quite  used  to  being  protected  from 
ghosts  in  the  passage."  He  pursued  his  train  of  musings, 
until  the  hot  end  of  the  match  falling  upon  his  bare  instep, 
banished  these  reflections,  and  with  another  lay  expletive 
Alaric  bounced  into  bed.  At  breakfast  next  morning  he 
had  a  visitor. 

"Mr.  Turbeyson,"  Hannah  announced,  and  the  red- 
headed little  man  bustled  in. 

"Don't  apologise,  Cottle !"  He  took  Alaric's  chair  and 
swept  Alaric's  coffee-cup  and  plate  of  fried  kidneys  and 
ham  away  to  make  room  on  the  table  for  his  elbows. 

"I  don't,"  said  Alaric.     "I'm  waitin'  for  you," 

"Why — I  have  your  seat,  haven't  I  ?"  said  Mr.  Turbey- 
son . 

"Not  now !"  said  Alaric  cheerfully,  lifting  Mr.  Turbey- 
son out  of  it  and  assuming  it  and  resuming  his  interrupted 
meal  with  placid  cheerfulness. 

"The  fact  is,  Cottle,"  said  Mr.  Turbeyson,  "the  secret 
is  out.  Lavinia  Mantowler  has  been  to  my  place  this 
morning."  He  waited  to  mark  the  effect  of  the  announce- 
ment. "And  she  had  told  me  all!"  His  red  hair  stood 
on  end  as  he  rubbed  it  up  in  his  excitement,  and  his  little 
pink  eyes  twinkled  eagerly.  "She  has  been  rash — from 
a  worldly  point  of  view — and  from  an  unworldly  point 


The  Rector's  Duty  341 

you  have  been  disinterested  in  doing  what  you  have 
done.  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  neither  of  you  live  to 
regret  it.  But  whether  you  do  or  not,  the  bulk  of  the 
money  goes  to  Mantowler's  step-sister.  I  think  that's 
plain  enough." 

"Quite!"  said  Alaric,  taking  more  toast. 

"Lavinia  Mantowler  will  have  about  seven  hundred  a 
year,"  said  Mr.  Turbeyson.  "As  her  late  husband's 
agent  and  executor  I  speak  with  certainty.  Seven  hundred 
a  year,  with  economy,  ought  to  be  enough  for  both  of 
you!" 

"My  good  sir,"  said  Alaric,  "I  don't  want  any  of  it. 
Let  Mrs.  Mantowler  keep  her  income — for  me!  My 
simple  wants  are  easily  satisfied."  He  took  another 
kidney.  "She  will  go  her  way  and  I  shall  go  mine.  She 
will  do  as  she  likes  and  I  shall  do  as  I  like.  Perfect 
freedom  on  either  side !"  He  drank  his  coif ee  defiantly. 

"Cottle!  Cottle!"  said  Mr.  Turbeyson  in  horror. 
"Your  cloth,  man!  your  cloth!" 

"I  have  had  my  cloth  stuffed  down  my  throat,"  said 
Alaric  peevishly,  "until  I  feel  like  a  boa-constrictor  who 
has  swallowed  his  blanket.  As  for  Mrs.  Mantowler,  I  will 
admit  that  she  is  a  fine  woman — even  a  takin'  woman. 
But  all  this  dagger-and-bowl  business  tries  a  man.  And 
this  I  say  and  this  I  stick  to — her  jealousy  of  Miss  Geral- 
dine  is  unladylike  and  unwomanly." 

"You  must  own,  Cottle,  that  you  have  given  her  the 
excuse  to  be  jealous,"  said  Mr.  Turbeyson. 

"Never,  I'll  swear!"  affirmed  Alaric. 

"Do  you  deny  that  any  tie  exists  between  you?"  cried 
Mr.  Turbeyson,  jumping  up. 

"I  do,"  said  Alaric.  His  head  was  dizzy,  he  yielded  in 
a  kind  of  delirium  to  the  tide  of  circumstances  that  swept 
him  along.  "If  she  asserts  it  let  her  prove  it!"  he  added 
defiantly. 

"I  will  see  her  at  once — must  get  to  the  bottom  of  this. 


342  A  Sailor's  Home 

But  if  she  cannot  prove  what  she  asserts  the  money  is 
hers — inalienably  hers,"  shouted  Turbeyson,  thumping  the 
table. 

"Damn  the  money !"  exploded  Alaric,  hitting  it  too. 

"Cottle,  I  overlook  this,"  said  Mr.  Turbeyson,  rising, 
"as  in  your  present  state  of  excitement  I  do  not  hold  you 
responsible  for  your  words.  But  if  it  occurs  again,  it 
will  be  my  painful  duty  to  report  you  to  the  Vestry,  which 
will  communicate  with  the  Rural  Dean,  who  will  take  his 
own  measures  with  regard  to  laying  the  case  before  the 
Bishop  of  Wimsterford.  Good-morning!" 

He  left  very  quickly,  in  order  to  avoid  hearing  the 
ultimate  destination  to  which  the  frenzied  Alaric  con- 
signed both  the  Bishop  and  the  Rural  Dean. 

"Cottle  denies  the  bond — and  as  calm  and  cool  as  you 
please !"  Mr.  Turbeyson  muttered  to  himself  as  he  strode 
down  the  short  gravel  drive.  "On  the  other  hand, 
Lavinia  affirms  it.  It's  not  natural,  seeming  anxious  to 
part  with  two  thousand  a  year  and  Hilcot  Manorlees  in 
favour  of  the  girl,  and  I'm  beginning  to  think  it's  a  trap." 
He  blinked  his  pink  eyes  rapidly.  "Odd  if  I'd  baited  one 
for  Cottle  to  fall  into  it  myself !  I'd  an  idea  that  Mrs. 
Mantowler's  enmity  towards  him  arose  from  jealousy  of 
his  even  temporarily  occupying  the  Rector's  place, — and  I 
more  than  suspect  there  was  something  between  him  and 
Geraldine.  But  I've  been  going  too  quick.  I  must  keep 
quiet — be  vigilant  and  keep  quiet, — if  ever  I  am  to  ben- 
efit by  Mantowler's  hatred  of  parsons!"  So  instead  of 
going  straight  back  to  Mrs.  Mantowler  Mr.  Turbeyson 
went  home  and  spent  the  day  over  his  farm  accounts — 
for  he  was  a  sharp  and  money-making  land-cultivator. 

Thenceforward  the  days  passed  peacefully  for  Alaric. 
By  dint  of  straining  to  the  utmost  his  native  ingenuity 
he  managed  to  avoid  not  only  burying  his  parishioners, 
but  baptising  them  and  marrying  them,  and  thanks  to 
the  assiduous  coaching  of  Mr.  Choom  the  Sunday  service 


The  Rector's  Duty  343 

— which  was  attended  by  many  persons  to  whom  church- 
going  was  the  exception  rather  than  the  rule — was  not 
stirred  by  any  peculiar  element  of  strangeness.  Yet,  as 
Alaric  preached,  embroidering  upon  a  well-worn  temper- 
ance sermon  of  the  Reverend  Aloysius's  arabesques  born 
of  his  own  imagination  and  experience — nobody  went 
away  without  something  to  talk  about. 

"You  certainly  possess  a  great  knowledge  of  human 
nature — of  a  certain  kind,"  said  the  bewildered  Mr. 
Choom  afterwards;  "but  is  it  necessary  to  the  success 
of  this  new  scheme  of  yours  that  you  should" — he 
coughed — "employ  slang  in  the  pulpit?" 

"Did  I?"  said  Alaric,  opening  his  eyes. 

"You  said — and  I  don't  deny  the  expression  was  ner- 
vous :  'The  man  who  ignores  good  breeding  is  a  bounder, 
the  man  who  ignores  decency  is  a  sweep;  the  man  who 
ignores  religion  is  not  only  a  bounder  and  a  sweep,  but  a 
cad  into  the  bargain!'  And  then  you  said,  alluding  to 
the  liquor-habit,  'Constant  pegging  ends  in  unlimited 
booze,  and  unlimited  booze,  my  brethren,  ends  in  D.T.' 
And — speaking  of  the  only  really  good  man  you  person- 
ally had  even  known,  you  added,  'You  will  be  sorry  to 
hear  that  he  is  now  in  Heaven !'  And  I  don't  venture 
to  say  the  line  you're  taking  is  an  ill-advised  one,  but  I 
am  sure  that  it  will  scandalise  a  great  many  persons." 

"Will  they  stay  away  from  church  in  consequence,  or 
will  they  come  to  be  scandalised  again?"  asked  Alaric 
acutely. 

"They'll  come  again !"  said  Mr.  Choom  with  conviction. 
"Trust  them  for  that!" 

"Then  what  have  you  got  to  complain  of?"  asked 
Alaric. 

He  was  in  good  spirits.  The  country  diet,  constant 
exercise  and  regular  hours  had  given  tone  to  his  system 
and  renewed  vigour  to  his  muscles.  The  absence  of 


344  A  Sailor's  Home 

dunning  letters  and  County  Court  summonses  had  re- 
lieved his  mind  and  cheered  his  spirits.  And  added  to 
this,  he  was  in  love,  and  with  a  charming  girl,  who  made 
no  pretence  of  regarding  his  sentiments  with  indifference. 
He  knew  that  the  jealous  Mrs.  Mantowler  regarded  his 
constant  meetings  with  Geraldine  as  so  many  repeated 
insults  to  herself,  and  that  she  would  carry  out  her 
threat  of  one  day  unmasking  him,  and  sometimes  he 
could  hardly  contain  his  curiosity  to  learn  the  real 
nature  of  the  wrong  she  had  sustained. 

And  he  urged  on  his  suit  with  Geraldine.  He  was  very 
much  in  love — Miss  Halkett  was  no  longer  a  minor,  and 
in  the  same  condition ;  and  when  Alaric  boldly  proposed 
to  seal  the  compact  between  them  by  a  visit  to  the  office 
of  the  District  Registrar,  she  was  not  as  much  shocked 
as  he  had  expected. 

"Even  if  I  consented — which  I  don't  dream  of  doing," 
she  said,  "it  seems  wrong  for  a  clergyman  to  be  civilly 
married." 

"We'll  be  uncivilly  married  afterwards,"  said  Alaric, 
"and  if  you  insist  on  a  Bishop  and  sixteen  bridesmaids — 
you  shall  have  'em.  Only  let  me  make  sure  of  you — let 
me  be  certain  that  nobody  can  part  us,  Jerry,  dear,  before 
we  let  people  into  our  secret." 

"You  are  afraid  of  Lavinia,  I  believe,"  said  Geraldine, 
scanning  her  lover's  countenance. 

"She  has  threatened  to  part  us,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
she'll  try  to  keep  her  word !"  said  Alaric  ruefully. 

"And  if  I  consent  to  this — dreadfully  informal  course 
of  action,"  said  Geraldine,  "are  you  sure  that  you  will 
never  repent  marrying  a  comparatively  poor  young 
woman  ?" 

"Sure!"  said  Alaric,  who,  to  do  him  justice,  had  been 
too  much  engaged  by  Geraldine's  person  to  think  much 
about  her  purse. 


The  Rector's  Duty  345 

"My  step-brother  was  a  strange  man,"  said  Geraldine 
pensively,  "Scarcely  sane  on  certain  points,  I  fancy.  And, 
by  the  conditions  his  will  imposes  on  me,  I  forfeit  the 
greater  part  of  my  income  by  marrying  you." 

"But  your  step-brother  didn't  know  me  I"  objected 
Alaric. 

"If  my  step-brother  had,"  said  Geraldine  fondly,  "I 
believe  he  would  have  made  a  different  will." 

"By  the  way,  who  was  he  when  he  was  alive?"  asked 
Alaric.  Geraldine  opened  her  lovely  eyes. 

"  Who  was  he  I"  Lavinia's  late  husband  Harrison 
Mantowler,  of  course.  How  can  you  ask  when  you  know 
quite  well?" 

Alaric  repressed  the  impulse  to  ask  many  more  ques- 
tions, but  with  an  inward  conviction  that  his  stay  in 
Mangold  Wurzelfield  would  be  of  short  duration,  he 
hastened  his  preparations  for  the  wedding  before  the 
District  Registrar.  It  took  place  on  the  morning  of 
the  County  Harriers'  Ball,  which  was  annually  celebrated 
in  the  Masonic  Hall  given  to  Mangold  Wurzelfield  by  a 
local  magnate  and  generally  pointed  out  to  strangers  by 
residents  as  being,  next  to  the  Church,  the  Recreation 
Hall,  and  the  Salvation  Army  Barracks,  the  chief  archi- 
tectural feature  of  the  village. 

The  Registrar's  office  was  a  mile  out  of  Mangold  Wur- 
zelfield, and  the  Registrar,  Alaric  ascertained  when  he 
went  to  give  the  customary  notice,  was  away  in  London. 
His  representative,  a  pimply  elderly  man,  carried  out  the 
duties  of  his  office  without  enthusiasm,  in  the  presence 
of  Geraldine's  maid  and  a  comparatively  respectable 
tramp  whom  Alaric  had  impressed  from  the  highway — 
and  then  the  newly-married  couple  parted  and  went 
home  to  breakfast. 

"You  have  given  up  a  lot  for  me,  Jerry,  my  darling !" 
said  the  bridegroom  repentantly.  "I  hope  you  may  never 
regret  it!" 


346  A  Sailor's  Home 

"As  if  I  could !  I  shall  think  of  you  at  the  Ball  to-night, 
dearest!"  said  Mrs.  Cottle  fondly,  as  Alaric  kissed  her. 

"You  will  not  only  think  of  me  but  see  me!"  said 
Alaric,  "because  I  have  had  an  invitation  and  shall 
certainly  be  there!" 

"But  I  thought  you  absolutely  disapproved  of  dancing 
clergymen!"  said  Geraldine  in  surprise. 

"That  was  a  long  while  ago,"  said  Alaric,  "and  as  you 
have  often  remarked,  I  am  changed.  I  am  not  what  I 
was  when  I  knew  you  first,  Geraldine." 

"It  is  the  change  in  you  that  made  me  love  you !"  said 
Geraldine. 

"If  that  fellow  De  Braybroke  hasn't  dropped  my  last 
dollars  over  his  System,  instead  of  breakin'  the  banks 
wherever  he  goes,"  thought  Alaric  as  he  kissed  his  newly- 
made  bride  and  hurried  back  to  the  Rectory,  "there  won't 
be  change  enough  to  buy  sugar  for  the  bird.  Jerry  tells 
me  she'll  have  a  few  hundreds  a  year  left  when  the  bulk 
is  scooped  by  Mantowler's  executors.  That  must  be 
secured  to  her  absolutely,  bless  her !  And  when  I  chuck 
the  parson  business — which  naturally  I  shall  almost  im- 
mediately— I  must  get  something  to  do.  A  comfortable 
sinecure  with  a  large  salary  attached  ought  to  be  easily 
picked  up." 

His  depression  did  not  last  long.  He  was  cheerful  at 
breakfast,  lively  at  lunch,  hilarious  at  dinner.  He  dressed 
with  care  in  the  best  evening  clericals  of  the  Reverend 
Aloysius,  and  smiled  at  himself  approvingly  in  the  muslin- 
draped  toilet  glass  of  the  Rector's  dressing-room. 

"Parsons  don't  usually  wear  button  holes,"  he  said,  as 
Hannah  blushingly  pinned  a  tuberose  in  the  correct  spot, 
"but  on  this  occasion  we'll  break  the  rule."  Then  he 
drew  a  pair  of  Aloysius's  goloshes  over  his  smart 
buckled  pumps,  and  hurried  down  the  road  to  the  village. 

Mangold  Wurzelfield  was  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 
ment. Smart  carriages  deposited  their  county  loads  at 


The  Rector's  Duty  347 

the  doors  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  Masonic  Hall,  and 
shabby  flies  disgorged  their  humbler  burdens.  The  ball- 
room was  decorated  with  flags,  flowers  and  electric  lights, 
the  Yeomanry  Band  united  with  the  Volunteers  in  Terpsi- 
chorean  melody.  The  opening  quadrilles  were  over. 
Couples  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  spun  over  the  well-waxed 
floor  in  the  opening  valse.  And  there  was  Geraldine! 
Geraldine  in  full  ball-costume  and  wearing  her  mother's 
diamonds,  entering  on  the  arm  of  her  uncle,  Captain  Hal- 
kett.  And  there,  too,  in  the  middle  of  a  knot  of  county 
dowagers  stood  Mrs.  Mantowler,  looking  handsomer  than 
Alaric  had  ever  seen  her — and  more  determined. 

"Good  gracious,  Cottle!"  said  a  voice  behind  Alaric, 
as  Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson,  in  an  old-fashioned  evening  suit, 
rushed  up  and  buttonholed  the  young  man :  "You  here  ? 
And — mercy  on  us ! — you  can't  possibly  intend  to  dance  ?" 

"Certainly  I  do!"  said  Alaric.  He  went  up  to  Geral- 
dine, who  received  him  with  a  radiant  smile.  "Our  valse, 
I  think !"  he  said,  passed  his  arm  about  his  bride's  waist 
and  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  revolving  mob  of 
couples. 

"Darling,"  gasped  Geraldine,  "do  you  think  you " 

but  her  breath  failed  her  as  she  was  swept  upon  the 
strong  arm  of  a  skilful  dancer  into  the  giddy  maze. 
People  stood  aside  to  watch  the  handsome  couple,  a  buzz 

"It's  sacrilege !  rank  sacrilege !"  cried  Mr.  Peter  Tur- 
beyson. "He  ought  to  be  stopped!  .  .  .  it's  enough  to 
give  a  Parish  Councillor  and  Vestryman  the  apoplexy  to 
of  comments  arose,  both  admiring  and  deprecating.  .  .  . 
see  such  goings  on !" 

He  reeled  back  giddily,  and  trod  heavily  upon  the  toe 
of  somebody  who  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation  in  a 
familiar  voice. 

"Cottle !"  he  gasped,  recognising  the  owner. 

The  Reverend  Aloysius,  pale,  unshaven  and  dusty  from 
travel,  clutched  Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson  by  the  arm. 


348  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Where  is  he?"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "Show  him  to  me! 
They  told  me  at  the  Rectory  he  was  here!  Point  him 
out!  Ah!  there  he  is!" 

The  trembling  finger  of  the  agitated  young  clergyman 
indicated  the  whirling  figures  of  Alaric  and  Geraldine. 
Then  a  fierce  denunciatory  cry  broke  forth.  The  dancers 
stopped  .  .  .  the  band  did  the  same.  A  circle  of  eager 
faces  hemmed  in  a  group  of  three — Alaric,  composed  and 
easy,  Geraldine  pale  and  panting,  clinging  to  his  arm, 
and  the  almost  awe-inspiring  figure  of  Mrs.  Mantowler. 

"Behold!"  she  cried,  or  something  to  that  effect,  "this 
creature — this  dancing  dervish  of  a  clergyman,  who 
flourishes  his  heels  in  the  face  of  Decency  and  Propriety 
and  thinks  that  he  can  continue  to  do  so  with  impunity. 
Aye!"  she  shrieked,  her  black  eyes  blazing  upon  Alaric, 
"I  vowed  to  unmask  you,  sir,  and  I  will !  Gentlemen  and 
ladies,  ten  years  ago  I  was  left,  as  you  are  aware,  with 
this  young  lady  whom  you  all  know" — she  pointed  to 
Geraldine — "co-legatee  of  my  husband's  large  property. 
One-third  went  to  her — the  rest  to  me.  The  money  was 
to  remain,  as  long  as  we  continued  to  fulfil  the  conditions 
of  the  will — absolutely  at  our  own  disposal.  But  if  either 
of  us  married  a  clergyman — my  poor  dear  husband  hated 
them — and  I  have  learned  to  share  in  his  dislike! — that 
one  was  to  forfeit  the  bulk  of  the  legacy  in  favour  of  the 
other.  If  both  of  us  persisted  in  wedding  husbands  in 
the  Church — both  of  us  were  stripped  of  our  inheritance, 
— which  in  that  event  went  to  my  husband's  distant  rela- 
tive, Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson."  She  stopped  for  breath. 

"Very  well  put,"  said  Mr.  Peter  Turbeyson. 

"I  will  own  it,  when  I  first  met  with  Mr.  Cottle  I  was 
carried  off  my  feet,"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler.  "I  will  con- 
fess it,  I  encouraged  his  advances.  And  I  was  privately 
married  to  him  two  months  ago  at  the  District  Registrar's 
office  without  telling  him  about  the  terms  of  my  late 
husband's  will." 


The  Rector's  Duty  349 

"No,  no!"  cried  Geraldine  passionately.  She  clutched 
Alaric  by  the  arm.  "Oh !  speak !"  she  cried.  "Tell  them 
it  is  not  true !" 

"He  can't !"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler,  with  dilated  nostrils 
and  blazing  eyes.  "Ask  him  something  else.  Ask  him 
whether  we  did  not  quarrel,  and  whether  you  were  not 
the  cause?  Deny  that  he  kissed  you  in  the  pulpit — you 
meant  him  to  do  it,  you  know ! — on  the  Eve  of  the  Har- 
vest Festival.  And  you,  you  twirling  clerical  teetotum !" 
she  cried,  with  a  suddenness  that  made  Alaric  jump, 
"deny  that  I  drove  you  from  my  presence  with  the  scorn 
you  merited,  and  that — when  my  woman's  weakness  led 
me  to  summon  you  back  again — you  brazenly  insulted 
and  defied  me — bade  me  go  my  way  and  pursued  your 
own  career  of  crime — which  has  ended,  this  very  morn- 
ing, in  a  bigamous  marriage  contracted  with  this  unhappy 
girl,  before  the  Registrar's  deputy,  Mr.  Smithers,  who, 
finding  your  name  already  recorded — coupled  with  my 
own — upon  the  Marriage  Register — communicated  very 
properly  with  me!  And  now  you  are  unmasked!"  said 
Mrs.  Mantowler,  folding  her  jewelled  arms  upon  her 
heaving  bosom  and  regarding  Alaric  sternly:  "And  I 
hope  you  like  it !" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  said  Alaric,  supporting  the  half- 
swooning  Geraldine.  "Publicity's  beastly,  you  know,  and 
dirty  linen — especially  if  it's  a  surplice — oughtn't  to  be 
washed  in  a  ball-room."  He  glanced  round  the  staring 
circle  of  faces,  and  his  perturbed  eye  lightened.  He 
recognised  his  brother.  "Why,  Ally,  old  man,  is  that 
you?"  he  said  good-temperedly.  "Come  in  time  to  tell 
'em  all  about  it  and  save  me  a  lot  of  trouble?" 

"What  have  you  done — profligate?"  demanded  the 
dusty  young  clergyman  addressed,  pushing  his  way  into 
the  circle.  "And  you — madam!"  he  cried,  turning  on 
the  appalled  Lavinia  Mantowler.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  these  accusations?" 


350  A  Sailor's  Home 

"Aloysius,"  cried  Mrs.  Mantowler,  staring  wildly  from 
twin-brother  to  twin-brother.  "Which  are  you  ? — oh ! 
am  I  mad  or  dreaming?" 

"Aloysius !"  sobbed  Geraldine,  clinging  to  Alaric.  "Ex- 
plain or  I  shall  die!" 

"The  explanation  consists  of  three  words,"  said  Alaric. 
"We  are  twins — me  and  old  Ally  here,  though  he  has 
never  told  you  about  his  little  brother.  One  of  us  went 
into  the  Church — that's  him !  the  other  stopped  outside — 
that's  me !  Like  the  celebrated  Two-Headed  Nightingale, 
a  strong  attachment  has  always  existed  between  us, — and 
a  few  weeks  ago  when  Aloysius — on  the  eve  of  goin' 
abroad  with  a  clergyman's  sore  throat — would  have  been 
recalled  to  duty — I — unknown  to  him — threw  myself  de- 
votedly into  the  breach.  Let  no  one  chuck  bricks  at  a 
man  who  is  capable  of  such  a  sacrifice.  Madam" — he 
turned  to  Mrs.  Mantowler — "you  will  now  exonerate  me 
from  any  lack  of  hospitality  in  the  matter  of  not  unbolt- 
ing the  little  side-door.  Geraldine,  if  you  can  put  up 
with  the  lifelong  devotion  of  a  mere  layman,  it  is  yours ! 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  addressed  the  crowd — "in  the 
past  six  weeks,  durin'  which  I  have  performed  the  Rec- 
tor's duty  in  this  parish,  I  have  got  out  of  christenin' 
some  people — dodged  marryin'  others  and  drawn  the 
line  at  buryin'  the  rest."  There  was  a  guffaw  of  mascu- 
line and  feminine  laughter.  "To-day  I  have  myself 
been  married — you  all  know  my  wife — I  hope,  now  that 
you  all  know  me,  you  will  not  decline  my  further  ac- 
quaintance." 

"Why  should  we?"  said  Mrs.  Mantowler,  beaming  as 
she  held  her  recovered  Aloysius  fast  with  one  hand  and 
extended  the  other  to  Alaric,  who  squeezed  it  warmly. 
"Don't  mention  the  gravel  again!"  she  whispered.  "He 
might  think  it  odd  !" 

And  the  band  struck  up  again  and  the  dance  went  on 
merrily. 


XIV 
THE  FROZEN  TRUTH 

As  TOLD  IN  A  PORTION  OF  A  LETTER  FROM  No.  2035 
PRIVATE  ALFRED  HARRIS,  WEST  MIDSHIRE  REGI- 
MENT, THE  CAMP,  HORNECLIFFE,  TO  Miss  SARAH 
BISBEE,  2,  LITTLE  POTTER'S  BUILDINGS,  CANAL  ROAD, 
EAST  DITCHAM,  S.E. 


i  Rite  from  Provishunal  Camp  Gink  pendink  the 
Dissision  of  the  Court  of  Inkwiry  to  Put  things  Strate 
betwixt  me  and  Yu  Deer  old  Gal  in  Case  Yu  Hav  Bene 
upsett  bi  the  Bloomin'  Lise  in  the  London  Nusepappers 
about  Mutiny  &  Riot  which  Has  werked  the  ole  Camp 
into  a  stait  of  indiggnashun  imposable  to  xaggrate. 

That  there  Took  Plais  a  Bit  of  a  Scrapp  Between  Ours 
&  a  Party  of  the  Ballyduff  Fusiliers  from  Frisborough 
West  Camp  oo  Wishes  to  Deny?  but  to  balli  Well  say 
that  Baynits  was  imploid  in  the  Komflik  &  that  2  of  the 
Guard  Neer  got  Outed  in  consekens  is  fair  Old  Rot  and 
Nonsens.  As  to  an  Orfcer  Firin  is  Rivolver  in  Self 
Di  fence,  That  be  jiggared  for  a  Tale.  Also  to  stait  that 
the  Ole  Aphair  ad  its  oragin  in  an  Unpoplar  Order  Plais- 
ing  Our  Canteen  out  of  boundse  for  Other  Regiments, 
is  Wot  Mullins  Colour  Sergeant  of  my  comny  calls  an 
offensive  alligator  which  means  a  Crimson  Cuffer  if  ever 
Their  Was  Wun.  The  5000  Men  quartered  Hear  rep- 

351 


352  A  Sailor's  Home 

presenting  Cavalry  Artillery  &  Infantry  of  the  King's 
Army  Feel  Akutely,  Mullins  sais  that  a  Gross  Injusstis 
Has  Bin  Dun  by  These  Injurius  Reportse.  Deer  Sal  i 
Feel  Anxious  on  mi  Own  Akount  that  yu  as  mi  Yung 
Woman  Shold  Nott  Taik  the  Neadle  on  Akounts  of  Wot 
i  supose  yu  Ave  Bin  Told  bi  now,  bi  that  Slab-Sided 
slack-jord  Civilian  T.  Jones  Which  is  alwais  Hanging 
abart  yure  little  Plais  at  Ditcham  Tel  Him  to  go  &  Fry 
His  Face  a  Helthy  Brown  and  Not  For  the  Futur  get  Up 
Any  little  gamse  trying  To  Part  True  Luverse  (xxxxx !). 

The  ritse  of  the  Matter  is  mi  Deer  that  on  Satterday 
Nite  Me  and  my  Pal  F.  Brown  attended  the  Music  All  at 
Sandspade  &  There  Chumd  up  With  Two  BallydufFs 
Named  Donergan  &  Sheehy.  Privit  Donergans  Back 
Teeth  Ware  Under  Whisky  wile  His  Mate  Was  Disididly 
Under  the  influense  of  swipse.  Me  &  F.  Brown  Had  a 
cupple  of  Potse  of  ^  &  Y-Z  likewise  4  Threes  of  Scotch, 
F.  Brown  Aving  Pulled  Orf  a  Bett  With  a  chap  of  Ours 
&  Being  Flush  of  the  Reddy  in  Consequens. 

A  Yung  Lady  in  a  Red  Costum  &  A  Blew  Hat  with 
Ostridg  Plums  Passed  the  Time  of  Day  With  Donergan 
&  Another  yung  Lady  in  a  Pink  Blowse  Pulled  Up  With 
F.  Brown  Saying  She  was  a  Old  Joint  of  'is  From  Whit- 
chapel  Wot  e  ad  Bin  &  Forgotten  For  other  Faces  &  it 
Took  Two  2's  of  Gin  to  quiet  'er  Down.  The  Turns  Had 
Bigunn  and  the  Audiens  was  shouting  Order  most 
stremenjus  Bikause  Private  Donergan  Kep  a  Putting  is 
Oar  in  and  a  jining  With  the  Gent  what  was  Getting  a 
Paterotic  Song  off  of  His  Chest  Bifore  the  Time  came  for 
the  Corus.  Besides  Which  Sheehy  was  Carrying  on  Like 
a  regler  Loomey  Bicaus  wich  The  Yung  Lady  in  Red 
with  a  Blew  Hat  wold  sit  Nex  Me  which  deer  Sal  you 
kno  was  not  along  of  My  Passing  Her  the  Come  Along 
Ducky,  &  when  there  was  a  Military  Sketch  With  a 
Cupple  of  Blokes  in  Kharki  Service  Kit  gassing  abart  the 
Honour  of  the  British  Soldier  &  a  Firing  Section  Volleyse 


The  Frozen  Truth  353 

of  Blank  Cartridg  out  of  Condemd  Martinis  over  A 
Protecting-  Earthwork  of  Sackse  Stuffed  with  Straw.  She 
Kep  a  Squealing  and  Pinching  of  Yurs  Truly  &  Then 
Pritended  to  Get  Faint  &  Fell  Back  on  Support  Me 
Hapning  to  Ave  my  Arm  Along  the  Back  of  the  Pit 
Bench  behind  her. 

Which  Sheehy  sees  and  Gits  Puffick  Outragious  a 
shoving  is  Ugly  Mug  against  my  Fais  &  says  he :  "You 
bloomin'  Shoreditch  Swine,"  he  sais,  "if  yu  Hav  the 
Marrow  Av  a  Man  in  the  Bacbone  Av  ye  Come  Outside 
wid  Me  Till  I  knock  yure  Teeth  Out  at  the  Back  av  yure 
Neck,"  he  says  "For  sejoosin  the  affections  of  the  Yung 
Lady  I'd  clapped  me  oi  on,"  he  says  "before  ever  got  the 
dirty  arm  of  you  round  the  Waste  of  her,"  says  he. 

The  Yung  Lady  in  the  Blew  Hat  she  told  Him  He 
was  a  Low  Vulgar  feller  and  she  wold  Not  Be  Seen  Dead 
in  the  Saim  Strete  With  Him  for  harf  a  Bull.  Every- 
boddy  in  the  Audiens  was  shouting  Order  bi  This  Time 
Til  the  People  on  the  Stag  Had  to  Talk  in  Dum  Sho  &  a 
Big  Powerful  Bloke  in  a  gilt  Edged  Cap  Came  shoving 
Threwgh  &  Collared  Donergan  &  Chuckd  Him  And  the 
People  Aplauded  like  mad  &  Sheehy  joined  in. 

There  was  No  more  Rowse  Deer  Sal  &  the  Evenin 
Passed  Me  &  F.  Brown  Enjoying  Ourselves  a  Fair  Old 
Treat.  Last  Thing  Me  &  F.  Brown  had  See  of  Sheehy 
Was  Wen  E  Run  His  Ed  up  agin  F.  Brown's  Fist.  F. 
Brown  Aving  called  im  a  Sneaking  Swine  for  Letting 
Donergan  Get  the  Blossoming  Chuck  Out  For  the  Dis- 
turbans  E  Ad  Maid  &  then  Aplauding  the  Chucker  & 
Sheehy  aving  Told  F.  Brown  to  Come  On  &  Ave  it  Hout. 
The  Yung  Lady  in  Red  with  the  Blew  At  Got  so  Upsett 
at  the  site  of  the  Blood  (N.B.  Sheehy's  nose)  That  Me  & 
F.  Brown  Took  Er  And  Er  Lady  Pal  in  the  Pink  Blowse 
into  a  Public  Ouse  to  Ave  a  Scotch  Cold  Which  she  said 
she  Ad  taken  for  Fainting  From  Childhood.  Later  on  Me 
&  F.  Brown  Falls  in  &  Priserving  Our  Formation  by 


354  A  Sailor's  Home 

Elber  Touch  Marches  Back  to  Camp  where  24  of  Ourse 
Ware  Pigging  it  in  a  Korrugated  Iron  Hutt  Miskalled 
y2  Com'ny  Quarters. 

Me  &  F.  Brown  Aving  Passes  we  nigotiated  the 
Sentries  with  Eese,  Entered  Camp  by  the  Quarter  Guard 
Tent  &  Riported  Ourselves  to  the  Guard,  Sergeant 
Murphy  Carfully  Searching  Us  in  the  Wrong  Plaisis  to 
Maik  Sure  No  Liquor  Was  Being  Smugld  Into  The 
Lines.  As  I  Slipt  a  Flat  */2  Pint  Bottle  Up  His  Cuff  and 
Tipt  Im  the  Wink: 

"Wot  Mangy  Civilian  Doggs,"  sais  He  "Have  Followed 
You  &  Your  Mate  Back  to  the  Lines  ?  Clear  off !"  Sais 
He  lifting  His  Big  Voice  &  Shouting  "Or  I'll  come  out 
to  you  in  My  Thousandse  &  Perish  Ye  off  of  the  Fais  of 
the  Erth,"  &  at  That  Some  skulkink  Shadders  Maid  off 
&  "By  my  thumb !"  Sais  the  Sergeant  glimsing  under  His 
Big  Hand,  "they're  Sojer  men  &  Not  sivilians.  For  all 
the  Dark  it  is  I  caught  the  glitter  of  Their  Belt-Buckles 
&  Buttons  &  What  Ye  have  been  Doing  Me  two  fine 
Men?"  Sais  He  "To  Dhraw  down  the  Vengeanse  Av  the 
Ballyduffs  Upon  your  Heads  I'll  Not  be  Askin  Now.  Off 
to  Your  Cotse  An  Be  Glad  Ye  Have  Whole  Heads  to  Lay 
on  your  Pillows,"  Sais  He  "For  there  is  No  Neater  Skull 
Crackers  than  the  Ballyduff  Fusiliers,"  He  Sais,  "in  the 
British  Army  this  Day." 

Talkin  Not  Bein  Alowed  after  Lights  Out  Me  &  F. 
Brown  Could  Not  Exchange  Opinions  as  to  oo  Ad  Fol- 
lered  Us  xcept  in  Wispers  &  the  snoring  in  the  Corrigated 
Hut  was  Such  we  Could  not  Hear  Each  other  Speek. 
Barmy  Sleep  Ad  not  Long  Disended  On  Our  Pilows 
Bifore  A  Volley  of  Stones  with  Arf  Bricks  &  Empty  Beef 
Tins  Comes  Through  the  Open  Winders  on  the  Looard 
Side  &  Wakes  up  the  Chaps  by  Rattlin  abut  Their  Eds. 

"Wot  the  Crimson  Fushia  Bell  is  That?"  sais  Corporal 
Jones  walking  up  with  One  of  is  Eyes  in  Want  of  a  sling, 
"an  oo  are  You  Outside  There?" 


The  Frozen  Truth  355 

"We're  the  Ballyduffs,"  says  a  Fritefully  Intoxicated 
voice  which  Me  &  F.  Brown  Rekognised  for  Sheehy's 
"An  We're  looking  for  the  Dirty  Blaggard  that  Has 
Spoiled  the  Good  Looks  av  the  Purtiest  Young  Man  that 
iver  Marched  In  soaped  Socks  to  the  chune  av  'Draw  a 
Threaded  Needle  Through  An  Lave  the  Worsted  In.' 
Give  Him  Out  to  us"  sais  He  "Till  we  Clane  Him  off 
the  Fais  av  the  Earth,  both  him  an  the  dhirty  little  Beggar 
He  Had  wid  Him.  Hand  Thim  Out  here  while  I'm 
spakin,  ye  potted  sardines,  or  by  my  song!  we'll  make 
Chape  Paste  av  you  for  the  billstickers,  so  we  will  Stand 
back,  boyos,  an  take  the  worrd  from  rrte  to  burrst  in  the 
dure." 

Deer  Sal  the  Hut  door  Was  bolted  Inside  &  Stood  the 
First  Rush.  Nex  Minnit  it  was  atop  of  Me  &  F.  Brown 
wich  slep  Nearest  to  it,  the  Ballyduffs  Pored  in  over  it 
&  the  Corrigated  Iron  Quarters  Was  As  Full  of  Life  & 
Xitement  As  a  Maggotty  Tin  of  Commissariat  Mutton. 
There  Was  No  Room  to  Use  Belts,  Men  fought  with  their 
Bare  Fists  &  the  Ends  of  Their  Noses  Touching  as  they 
Swore  Like  Tom  Catse  In  a  Patent  Covered  Dustbin. 

The  Ballyduffs  Which  Could  not  squeeze  Inside  the 
Hutt  were  Foaming  Maniaxe  Bicause  They  ad  broke  out 
of  Camp  &  Got  Inside  the  West  Midshire  Lines  to  kill 
2  of  Ours  (meening  F.  Brown  &  Me)  &  Not  To  Be  Able 
to  Do  it  First  Go  Orf  Was  A  Disgrais  That  Nawed 
Them  to  the  Marrer.  They  Was  cumming  In  By  the 
Roof  When  Sum  of  Our  Chapse  Fired  their  Rifles  in  that 
Direkshn.  (N.B.  Our  Men  Ave  all  Swore  on  Being 
Interrigated  by  the  Court  of  Inquiry  that  they  used 
Blank  Cartridge  but  ow  Pick  &  Chuse  in  such  a  skirm- 
maje  Deer  Sal  it  is  Not  Possable,  besides  which  Wun  of 
the  Assaleants  ad  the  Rim  of  is  Yeer  chipt  &  Another 
ad  a  Bullet  Thro  is  Cap.  As  For  the  Rest  of  us  the 
Caswaltys  are  cheafly  Swelld  Noses  &  Black  Eyes  Not 
to  Menshun  Sum  Cutse  from  Treading  on  Broken  Glass 


356  A  Sailor's  Home 

with  Bare  Feet.)  We  Ad  just  Got  Baynits  Fixed  When 
the  Guard  come  a  Running  Up  Follered  by  the  Camp 
Polise  with  the  Waterin  Cart  &  Hand  Pump,  For  Sum 
Bally  Loonatic  ad  cried  Fire! 

"Buzz  an  sting,  ye  crimson  Nest  av  Hornits,"  yells 
Sergeant  Murphy  which  I  Heered  Him  Plane.  "We'll 
Sluice  yees  out  av  that"  sais  He,  "in  the  Shake  av  a 
Lambs  Tail.  Turn  the  hose  through  the  dure,  Corp'rl 
Scanlan,  an  bid  the  boys  pump  wid  a  will.  Disinfect  the 
blaggards  to  their  dirty  souls,"  he  sais,  "lay  the  divil  in 
them  as  well  as  the  dust,"  sais  E,  "wid  Condy  and  pond- 
wather."  Deer  Sal  it  wil  be  Best  to  draw  a  Vale  over 
the  seen  which  follered.  Enuff  to  sett  Down  Ere  that 
the  Brigade  Major  Turned  up  shortly  After  the  Arrival 
of  the  Guard  &  the  Fire  Brigade,  that  the  Gilty  as  wel  as 
the  Innacent  was  Marched  Orf  to  Clink  &  that  the  Re- 
mainder of  the  Nite  passed  Peecefully. 

It  wil  be  Planely  Understood  by  You  deer  Sal  from 
this  Sworn  Staitment  of  fax  that  the  maylay  i  discribe 
does  not  Warrant  the  descripshun  of  a  Ryot  or  of  Mutiny, 
so  you  can  tel  A.  Jones  nex  time  E  reads  the  Paperse  to 
Yu  to  Fish  &  Find  out  For  Sumthing  Else  to  Bring  Up 
against  Absant  Frendse.  As  to  Being  Drunk  &  Disorderly 
tell  Im  to  Look  at  'Ome  nex  Time  E  is  Not  Able  to 
Bribe  the  Copper  Not  to  Pick  Im  For  a  Riper.  As  to 
Wantonly-Asaulting  a  Private  of  another  Regiment  Out- 
side a  Place  of  Entertainment  I  nevr;  which  Sheehy  up 
an  run  is  Ead  against  F.  Brown's  Fist  a  Purpose ;  as  for 
Risisting  the  Regamental  Police  in  the  Xacution  of  their 
Duty,  they  was  3  to  1  an  ow  could  I?  As  to  Aving 
Walked  Orf  with  another  Cove's  Young  Woman  she 
done  'er  best  to  Get  Round  Yurse  Truly  But  I  was  not 
Taking  Any  &  So  I  Let  Er  Know. 

Hoping  this  Finds  you  as  if  Leevs  Me  &  with  Love  & 
(xxxxxxx)  for  Yourself  I  remane 

My  Deer  Sal  Afexnat  yourse  T.  ATKINS. 


THE  people  who  occupy  the  flat  immediately  beneath 
ours  are  great  diners-out;  and  as  their  dog  is  of  a 
sociable  disposition  and  entertains  an  objection  to  the 
society  of  the  charwoman,  he  commonly  burrows  under 
the  doormat  and  howls  until  the  return  of  his  proprietors. 
But  the  howls  now  heard  by  myself  and  my  wife  were 
distinctly  human,  and  proceeded  from  our  culinary  de- 
partment at  the  passage  end.  Something  must  have  hap- 
pened to  Loosha !  We  sprang  from  the  dinner-table,  and 
made  one  bound  to  the  kitchen  door.  With  instinctive 
delicacy  we  listened  a  moment  before  bursting  in.  The 
outcries  never  ceased,  though  at  times  they  sounded 
strangely  muffled.  Had  a  burglar  dropped  in  for  a  late 
afternoon  visit?  Was  he  garrotting  the  too  faithful 
creature  who  had  refused  to  reveal  the  whereabouts  of 
the  plate-basket?  I  grasped  the  soup-ladle — which  I  had 
unconsciously  retained — with  nervous  determination.  We 
rushed  in  quietly.  There  was  no  burglar.  Only  Loosha 
behind  the  scullery-door,  with  her  head  wrapped  up  in 
the  jack-towel,  was  giving  vent  to  bursts  of  emotion  which 
might  well  have  aroused  the  envy  of  the  poodle  down- 
stairs. With  compassion,  slightly  tempered  with  severity, 
we  questioned  the  girl.  She  took  some  time  to  coax  out 
of  the  chrysalis  or  pupa  condition;  but  finally  emerged 
from  the  folds  of  the  jack-towel  and  explained.  Mother 
— who  should  have  known  better,  having  but  a  brief 

357j 


358  A  Sailor's  Home 

twelvemonth  since  interred  her  Second — was  now  receiv- 
ing the  addresses  of  a  potential  Third,  himself  a  widower 
with  nine  encumbrances.  In  justice  to  the  aspirant  we 
may  mention  that  he  was  fairly  well  to  do,  being  a  retired 
joiner  by  the  name  of  Mr.  Brown.  In  Loosha's  bitterest 
moments  she  deprived  him  of  the  prefix,  calling  him 
simply,  and  for  short,  "That  there  Brown." 

The  fell  news  had  only  been  brought  by  Loosha's 
little  step-sister  Emmeline,  though  Loosha  had  had  a 
premonitory  warning  in  the  way  of  creeps  down  her  back 
whenever  she  had  encountered  the  designing  Mr.  Brown 
for  some  time  past.  It  had  been  a-dorning  in  her  mind, 
she  said,  by  degrees  as  there  was  something  up ;  and  this 
very  afternoon  he  had  upped  and  spoke,  most  barefaced, 
on  the  identical  doorstep.  Says  he,  "Mrs.  Hemmans,  I 
will  not  deceive  you,  that  it  was  just  through  you  drop- 
ping in  in  a  friendly  way  to  'elp  at  the  laying  out  of  Her 
as  is  gone  (and  Her  only  buried  eleven  months)  that  my 
attention  was,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  drawed  to  you ; 
and  in  a  homely  way,  putting  the  thing  plainly  for  your 
thinking  over  quiet,  by  yourself,  I  will  say,  you  have  three 
and  me  similarly  nine;  and  both  unincumbijed,  why  not 
make  one  extra  large  table  out  of  your  medium  and  my 
full-sized?"  Which  table,  Loosha  parenthetically  ob- 
served, would  ultimately  prove  her  death-bed. 

We  tried  to  soothe  the  aggrieved  handmaid  by  every 
means  in  our  power.  Being  within  three  days  of  Christ- 
mas Day,  and  having  purposed  to  entertain  the  represen- 
tative members  of  our  respective  families — between 
whom  all  the  year  round  great  enmity  exists — at  a  social 
dinner,  the  prospect  before  us  was  overshadowed  by 
Loosha's  grief.  If  matters  came  to  a  crisis  she  would,  as 
like  as  not,  take  to  her  bed  and  remain  there  for  two 
days.  At  the  end  of  her  period  of  sackcloth  and  ashes 
she  would,  we  knew  by  previous  experience,  reappear  as 
fresh  as  paint  and  quite  reconciled  to  the  dispositions  of 


The  Checkmating  of  Mr.  Brown         359 

i 

Fate.  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  what  would  become  of  us  ? 
I  tried  to  argue.  I  reminded  Loosha  that  her  mother  was 
still  young,  active  and  industrious ;  and  that  one  could 
not,  while  deploring  the  act  of  Mr.  Brown,  revile  him 
for  his  choice  of  a  successor  to  the  departed;  that  that 
successor  might  be  called,  even  now,  a  pretty  woman, 
and  that  men  would  be  men,  no  matter  how  foolish  it 
was.  I  would  have  continued  in  this  strain,  but  that 
Loosha  became  hysterical. 

"She  ain't  young,"  she  screamed.  "With  me  twenty- 
three,  how  could  she  ?  And  she  ain't  pretty,  or  if  she  is, 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself !  And  both  my  father 
and  Emmeline  and  Elf  red's  father  would  say  so  if  they 
was  here !  And  if  she  does  it — which  at  her  time  of  life 
is  a  disgrace — I  shall  drown  myself  over  the  Albit  Bridge, 
in  the  Serpentine !"  The  Serpentine  is  not  far  from  our 
Brompton  door,  and  Loosha  is  a  very  determined  girl.  I 
was  conscious  of  a  momentary  dismay.  But  I  remembered 
just  in  time  that  the  Serpentine  had  been  announced  as 
frozen  over  in  the  evening  papers.  I  mentioned  this. 

"Then  I'll  marry  the  Railway  Guard,"  sobbed  Loosha. 
Then  she  went  into  hysterics  and  drummed  the  floor  with 
her  heels  and  the  back  of  a  Windsor  chair  with  her  head, 
in  quite  an  alarming  manner ;  and  I  was  ordered  out  of 
the  kitchen  that  she  might  be  unfastened  and  the  inevit- 
able remedies  applied.  It  took  a  whole  gill  of  Tarragon 
vinegar  and  the  best  part  of  the  tail  feathers  of  our 
Christmas  turkey  to  bring  her  to  anything  like  composure. 

That  was  three  days  before  Christmas.  We  have  got 
over  the  dinner  and  the  meeting  of  the  clans  without  any 
casualties  other  than  those  we  were  bound  to  expect. 
And  Loosha  is  preternaturally  bright,  sharp,  tight,  and 
brisk.  As  she  goes  about  her  work  she  sings.  "Come 
buy  my  Coloured  Errin"  is  a  favourite  vocal  exercise  with 
her.  But  it  has  been  superseded  by  "Take  Back  the 
Art."  And  from  the  piquantly  expressive  meaning  Lossha 


360  A  Sailor's  Home 


infuses  into  the  opening  lines  it  is  plain  that  she  applies 
them  to  Mr.  Brown,  whose  addresses  have  been  dis- 
couraged, and  whose  matrimonial  plans  have  been  cir- 
cumvented, thanks  to  the  prompt  action  taken  by  Loosha 
in  the  matter.  It  may  be  mentioned  that  our  handmaid's 
baptismal  appellation  was  originally  derived  from  a 
popular  Opera,  called  "Loosha  of  Lam  Her  More,"  wit- 
nessed by  mother  at  an  important  crisis.  Mother  is  quite 
a  cultured  person,  having  chared  for  several  authors,  one 
of  whom  was  a  poetical  genius  attached  to  a  well-known 
firm  of  soap-makers.  The  way  that  man  would  carry  on 
when  the  rhymes  wouldn't  come,  and  the  extent  to  which 
he  used  to  wipe  his  pens  in  his  hair,  must,  we  are  given  to 
understand,  have  been  seen  to  be  believed. 

Loosha's  mother,  like  many  small,  meek-looking  people, 
possesses  a  considerable  amount  of  determination.  If  she 
really  entertained  a  weakness  for  Mr.  Brown,  that  weak- 
ness was  not  to  be  put  down  with  the  strong  arm.  Loosha 
realised  that,  she  tells  us,  as  she  stood  on  the  kitchen- 
floor  and  met  those  black  beady  eyes,  so  like  her  own. 
True,  she  opened  no  parallels,  but  dashed  upon  her  sub- 
ject in  a  way  peculiarly  distinctive.  Emmeline  and  Elfred, 
seated  on  two  chairs  against  the  wall,  paused  in  their 
consumption  of  bread-and-treacle  on  hearing  themselves 
alluded  to  as  poor  lambs,  and  joined  their  lamentations 
to  sister  Loosha's.  The  Serpentine  and  the  Railway 
Guard  came  to  the  fore,  with  certain  other  ultimate  possi- 
bilities of  an  equally  harrowing  nature.  The  tumult 
raged  high,  though  Mrs,.  Hemmans  preserved  a  calm,  even 
stony,  demeanour.  And  in  the  middle  of  it  all  That  There 
Brown  knocked  at  the  door. 

No  quick-change  artist  ever  effected  a  more  wondrous 
transformation  than  did  Loosha,  in  that  minute.  Mrs. 
Hemmans  had  glided  away  to  put  her  cap  straight  and 
smooth  her  sleek  parting.  In  the  interval  between  her 
disappearance  a»d  her  return,  Loosha  and  Mr.  Brown 


The  Checkmating  of  Mr.  Brown         361 

had  become  quite  friendly.  Brown's  manner  was  quite 
fatherly,  and  his  features  shone  with  smiles  and  gin-and- 
water.  He  had  been  screwing  up  his  courage  with  that 
fortifying  beverage.  Loosha,  as  she  sent  the  astonished 
Emmeline  out  for  a  quartern  of  the  best  and  provided 
the  visitor  with  a  reliable  chair,  made  up  her  mind  that 
the  doom  of  That  There  Brown,  matrimonially  speaking, 
was  sealed.  Mother,  without  knowing  why,  felt  uncom- 
fortable when  the  widowed  joiner  proposed  taking  the 
entire  family  (it  was  Loosha's  day  out)  to  the  World's 
Fair  and  Loosha  warmly  responded  to  the  overture.  They 
took  Emmeline  and  Elf  red  and  the  Islington  'bus,  and 
That  There  Brown  and  Loosha  occupied  a  garden-chair 
seat  together  outside,  mother  and  the  children  being 
stowed  in  the  interior  of  the  vehicle.  Brown  was  fatherly 
when  they  started :  Portland  Road  found  him  affectionate. 
By  the  time  they  were  launched  amidst  the  giddy  delights 

of  the  Fair  he  was  beginning  to  think Deluded 

wretch!  What  matters  it  what  he  thought?  It  was 
deliberately  done  of  Loosha,  the  betraying  of  That  There 
Brown.  He  wandered  with  the  mother  and  daughter, 
each  on  an  arm,  through  a  fairyland  of  mingled  fog  and 
gaslight.  They  visited  the  birds,  the  beasts,  and  reptiles ; 
and  Loosha  appealed  to  him  for  information  as  to  their 
names,  species,  and  general  habitat,  and  greeted  every 
remark  of  his  with  admiring  "Lors !"  She  never  seemed 
to  notice  when  he  mixed  up  the  Bactrian  camel  with  the 
water  buffal.  She  went  upon  the  circular  switchback  with 
him— -Mother  being  too  timid  to  venture — and  became 
nervous  in  the  middle  of  the  airy  journey,  clinging  to  the 
arm  of  the  ravished  widower  with  feminine  squeaks  of 
terror.  How  enthralled  she  was  by  his  performance  on 
the  try-your-strength  machine,  though  the  marker  on 
the  dial  indicated  nothing  much  in  the  way  of  a  record ! 
The  more  fascinating  Loosha  became,  the  warmer  and 
more  perspiring  became  That  There  Brown.  He  nudged 


362  A  Sailor's  Home 

her  frequently.  All  the  sensation  of  his  corporeal  frame 
seemed  to  have  taken  its  abode  in  the  elbow  to  which 
she  hung.  The  widow  was  a  dead  weight  on  the  other. 
He  and  Loosha  got  lost  for  a  moment  in  the  Channel 
Tunnel. 

Was  it,  then,  that  the  miserable  man  uttered  the  words 
which  sealed  his  fate?  It  may  have  been.  All  we  know 
for  certain  is  that  those  words  once  uttered,  Loosha's 
manner  became  distant  and  offhand.  There  were  moments 
when  she  was  even  vinegarish.  That  There  Brown  put 
it  down  to  maiden  coyness,  and  renewed  the  siege  with 
redoubled  rashness.  It  was  when  the  Flying  Demons 
were  about  to  take  their  marvellous  leap  through  space, 
and  the  popular  attention  was  uniformly  diverted  to  the 
ceiling,  that  Mrs.  Hemmans — who  was  not  without  a 
consciousness  as  that  for  a  suitor  trembling  on  the  brink 
of  acceptance,  Mr.  Brown's  conduct  was,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  inadequate — felt  a  tug  at  her  shawl.  It  came  from 
the  infant  Emmeline,  whose  watchful  eye,  unchildlike  in 
its  keen  appreciation  of  the  situation,  had  detected  the 
joiner's  arm  in  the  act  of  enclosing  the  figure  of  Loosha 
under  the  shadow  of  her  bead-fringed  mantle.  After  that 
the  widow  was  taken  faintish,  and  had  to  be  revived  with 
peppermint  drops  ere  the  company  returned  to  Brompton. 
Mr.  Brown  was  not  invited  in  to  tea,  though  he  lingered 
long  upon  the  doorstep.  And  when  he  had  gone  Loosha 
uncorked  the  vials  of  her  contempt,  and  told  her  parent 
that  she  had  been  nursing  a  addick  in  her  bosom;  but 
thank  Providence,  it  was  unmasked  at  last! 

Next  morning  a  procession  of  four  started  for  the 
cemetery.  Emmeline  and  Elf  red  walked  in  front,  hand  in 
hand  and  bearing  votive  garlands.  In  the  presence  of 
the  headstone  on  which  the  virtues  of  her  Second  were 
recorded,  Mrs.  Hemmans  renewed  her  vows  of  faithful 
widowhood.  On  the  way  back  the  party  encountered 
That  There  Brown. 


The  Checkmating  of  Mr.  Brown         363 

"Mother  just  'ung  her  'ed,"  said  Loosha  afterwards, 
"and  walked  by  him  without  taking  no  more  notice  than 
if  he  was  dirt.  But  he  spreads  'isself  out  over  the  path, 
and  sezee,  'Don't  you  reckonise  your  friends,  Mrs.  Hem- 
mans,  mum,  at  this  time  o'  day,  after  all  as  has  been  said 
between  us?'  And  then  I  pushes  in,  an'  he  looks  up  and 
met  my  eye.  I  give  'im  a  cold  stare,  and  you  might  see 
'im  shrink,  as  if  'e  knowed  what  was  comin'.  'Begging 
your  pardon,'  I  says,  'but  did  you  mean  me  or  my 
mother?'  'Your  mother/  says  That  There  Brown,  'as  I 
think  and  'ope  will  make  a  good  wife  to  me  and  mother 
to  my  nine  children.'  'Which  you  was  of  a  different 
opinion  yesterday,'  I  sharps  back  on  'im,  'when  you  ast 
me  to  marry  you  at  the  World's  Fair.  Per'aps  you'd  like 
to  'ave  us  both,  as  the  Salt  Lake  Morgans  ain't  too 
particular  in  that  way,  and  you  may  belong  to  the 
English  branch  of  the  dinomagation.'  'You've  been  and 
raised  a  nornick's  nesk  about  my  yeers,  you  cat!'  says 
That  There  Brown,  with  a  scowl.  'Maria,'  and  he  looked 
imploring  like  at  mother,  'the  'uman  'art  is  impulshuous, 
special  when  led  away  by  gin-and-water.  Overlook  the 
accidence  and  you  won't  have  no  reason  to  complain.'  'I 
could  never  'ave  no  reliance  on  you,  Mr.  Brown,'  says 
mother,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  speakin'  as  if  she'd 
got  pins  in  'er  mouth,  'after  what  has  took  place.'  'So 
make  your  mind  up  to  it,'  I  says,  'as  neither  me  nor  my 
mother  ain't  going  to  be  no  wife  to  you  nor  your  nine 
children  neither.'  And  he  took  and  hooked  it,  did  That 
There  Brown." 


XVI 

THE  MOTOR  'BUS  BEANO 

ONE  ques'n  I'm  a-going  for  to  arsk,"  says  Mosey — 
name  of  'im  bein'  properly  Charles,  but  called 
Mosey  by  me  an'  'is  other  pals  along  of  a  bend  'e  'ad  in 
the  boko  what  made  'im  look  more  like  a  reg'lar  Petti- 
coat Lane  Sheeny  than  Alf  Emanuel,  what  was  'is 
bosom  friend  an'  'ad  a  uncle  a  Rabbi  what  was  a  Kosher 
butcher  in  Shoreditch.  "If  we  are  a-going  to  ride  in  a 
bloomin'  motor  'bus  instead  of  a  double  'orse  brake,  on 
the  'casion  of  our  annual  beano,  wot  excuse  'ave  we  for 
stoppin'  at  the  public  'ouses  along  the  road  as  we  go,  to 
give  the  pore  'osses  a  drink !  I'm  a  Conservative,  I  am, 
an*  I  set  my  face  against  new-fangled  ways,  that's  wot 
I  do." 

'E  shook  'is  'ead  as  solemn  as  a  undertaker  when  I  said 
we'd  drink  for  the  'osses  an*  ourselves  too.  It  wos  cheer 
an'  early,  not  more  than  seven,  but  'is  nose  was  fair  afire, 
an'  Alf  Emanuel  pretended  to  light  a  fag  at  it  an'  tipped 
the  wink  to  me.  Then  the  other  blokes  begins  to  roll 
up  with  their  bits  o'  frock,  an'  Alf's  sister,  Leah,  came 
bounce  round  the  corner  into  the  yard  an'  I  clean  forgot 
everything  but  'er  directly  I  piped  she  was  there.  "Way 
oh !"  she  says.  "This  is  what  I  call  a  regular  day  for  a 
beano  an*  no  error.  Pity  you  left  your  eyes  be'ind, 
Cocky,"  she  says  to  me,  'cos  she  sor  as  wot  they  was  glued 
to  'er,  an*  small  wonder.  Eyes  like  black  billiard  balls, 
she  'ad,  an'  skin  as  white  as  them  penny  cream  cheeses 
with  a.  rose  in  the  middle  of  each  of  'em,  an'  enough 

364 


The  Motor  'Bus  Beano  365 

black  'air  to  stuff  a  bolster,  with  a  wave  in  it  an'  natural 
chasers  on  each  side  like  what  the  other  gals  puts  in 
with  'ot  pokers.  She  'ad  a  whoppin'  big  red  'at  with  black 
ostridge  feathers  an'  a  blue  silk  dress  with  lace  on  it,  an' 
yellow  shoes  an'  pink  silk  openwork  stockin's  I  'ad  a 
glim  of  when  she  showed  'er  ankles  'oistin'  'er  frock  out 
of  the  mud,  an'  a  gold  chain  an'  ticker  an'  a  dimond 
brooch  she'd  borrowed  out  o'  the  safe  where  'er  dad 
kept  the  pledges,  to  give  'em  the  benefit  o'  the  sunshine 
an'  fresh  air,  she  said. 

Twenty- four  yobs  and  their  donahs  we  was  o'  that 
party,  every  bloke  pay  in'  for  'isself  an'  'is  gal.  Four 
married  couples  lumped  in  along  o'  the  rest,  an'  all  us 
men  'ad  straw  'ats  wiv  a  special  green  an'  yellow  ribbin 
so's  to  know  each  other  by  in  case  they  got  lost.  The 
dollar  apiece  inclooded  grub.  We  was  to  'ave  dinner  at 
a  place  on  Kew  Green  an'  meat  tea  at  another  place 
when  we  come  out  o'  the  Gardens.  I  call  it  good  enough 
if  you  don't. 

Eight  sizes  larger  than  life  was  'ow  we  felt  when  the 
motor  'bus  w'd  'ired  for  the  day  come  snortin*  an'  clat- 
terin'  into  the  yard  be'ind  the  Stratford  Theayter,  where 
we  was  awaitin'  as  Jappy  as  orphans  expectin'  a  Christ- 
mas tree.  The  driver,  'oo  wouldn't  stand  bein'  called  a 
"shuffer"  not  at  no  price,  'ad  a  gilt  band  on  'is  cap,  an' 
the  conductor  was  a  'andsome  fair  young  man  in  a  gray 
suit  o'  second-'anders  with  a  fancy  waister  an'  a  clean 
collar  an'  a  Reckitt's  blue  scragrag  an'  a  brown  bowler 
like  a  toff,  a'  though  'e  said  at  the  start  as  wot  'e  was  a 
married  man,  the  gals  rokkered  it  was  only  done  to  keep 
'em  from  quarrellin'  over  'is  large  eyes  an'  lovely  com- 
plexion an'  'is  curly  'air.  Perish  me  pink  if  I  ever  see'd 
anything  like  'im  outside  a  waxworks,  at  the  start,  but 
'e  was  only  fit  for  the  Chamber  of  'Orrors  by  the  time 
we  got  'ome.  'Is  fatal  beauty  was  wot  upset  the  apple- 
cart and  sjwled  the  funeral. 


366  A  Sailor's  Home 


I  lay  there  was  a  squeeze  an'  a  'arf  to  git  the  best 
places  on  the  Vanguard  what  we'd  'ired.  A  Pavilion 
Theayter  crush  on  Boxin'  night  was  well  outside  it. 
"  'Old  me  close,  I'm  fainting,"  says  Leah,  and  I  didn't 
want  tellin'  pre'aps!  Likely! 

We  started  with  a  row  like  twenty  railway  trucks  full 
of  old  iron  thrown  over  on  the  line,  an'  it  was  plain  to 
see  as  what  that  "Vanguard"  'ad  bin  up  in  orspital  for 
repairs  an'  come  out  too  soon.  She  sent  out  back-smoke 
what  fair  choked  the  kids  tryin'  to  'ang  on  be'ind,  an' 
snorted  an*  grunted  as  if  she  felt  'erself  above  'er  job 
an'  was  trying  to  say  so.  Every  onst  in  a  while  some- 
think  in  'er  inside  would  bank  off,  and  the  fust  three  or 
four  times  it  'appened  it  emptied  the  show  an'  the 
married  wimmin  let  the  driver  'ave  it  'ot  for  scaring  fe- 
males with  'is  machines.  But  'e  soothed  'em,  and  so  did 
the  pretty  conductor,  tellin'  'em  the  engine  'ud  go  quieter 
when  she  warmed  to  'er  work.  Lumme !  she  got  wuss 
instead  of  better.  Perish  me  pink  if  I  don't  believe  she 
was  the  fust  one  ever  invented,  an'  they'd  stole  'er  out 
of  a  museum  to  take  our  gang  to  Kew.  But  after  the 
fust  three  stops  for  a  'arf  pint  all  round,  nobody  tore 
their  feathers  about  'er  goings  on.  She  frightened  'osses, 
an'  made  coppers  jump,  an'  drawed  plenty  of  chyikin' 
from  the  other  yobs  we  come  across.  We'd  got  too  busy 
to  mind  'er. 

Up  along  Bow  Road  an'  the  Mile  Road  we  went  to 
Cheapside,  tearin'  the  bowels  out  o'  the  new  wood-pavin' 
whenever  we  put  on  the  brake,  an'  singin'  all  the  songs 
we  knowed  an'  most  o'  those  wot  we  never  'card.  Every 
bloke  'ad  a  pipe  or  a  fag,  'is  bonce  on  the  back  o'  'is  'ead, 
'is  arm  round  the  girl  he  liked  best,  an*  'is  eyes  full  of 
dust  an'  grit.  The  'ole  world  was  out  on  wheels  an* 
singin'  "A  great  big  Girl  like  me,"  "She  had  an  eye  to 
business,"  and  "Buzz,  buzz,  blue  blowfly."  Down  Pic- 
cadilly was  a  jam,  spite  of  its  bein'  October  an'  lots 


The  Motor  'Bus  Beano  367 

o'  the  upper  ten  out  of  town,  but  our  back-smoke  kept 
making  a  way.  A  Lord  Mayor'  Show  crowd  would  'ave 
'ad  to  make  room  for  us,  or  die. 

'''  'Er  engines  are  crooil  foul,"  Mosey  kep*  on  bleatin'. 
"  'Er  feed-pipe  is  rusted  through  an'  'er  oil  tank  is  full  o' 
dead  beetles  and  cetera.  She  'asn't  a  nut  that  ain't 
droppin'  off  or  a  screw  thread  that  isn't  wore,  an'  as  for 
'er  carburetters — they're  fair  rotters  an'  that's  the  truth." 

Leah  turned  on  'im  an'  said  'e  was  a  rotter  'isself  to 
spoil  the  day  with  'is  grumblin'.  After  that  'e  shut  up, 
an'  never  opened  'is  mouth  till  we  got  off  at  Kew,  an' 
after  rushin'  a  bar  an'  drinkin'  the  till  full  an'  the  'arf  an' 
'arf  casks  fair  dry,  we  filed  into  Kew  Gardens  two  by 
two  like  the  animals  out  o'  Noah's  Hark.  The  sky  was 
as  blue  as  Leah's  frock,  an'  the  grass  smooth  an'  green 
till  you  fair  perished  to  'ave  a  roll  on  it,  with  chrysan- 
tuerums  an'  chinarasters  an'  red-berried  srubs  growin* 
everywhere,  and  a  sweet  smell  o'  dead  leaves  an*  clean 
earth,  what  give  the  old  Vanguard  points  for  sweetness, 
you  can  lay. 

"Ain't  it  lovely,  though  a  little  damp,  bein'  so  late  in 
the  year,"  says  the  married  ladies,  keepin'  tight  'old  o' 
their  'usbands,  for  Kew  is  a  place  to  stray  an'  get  lost 
in  an'  never  find  yourself  till  you  want  to,  don't  yer 
pipe? 

"A  few  roundabouts  an'  shows  'ud  make  this  a  perfect 
paradise,"  says  Leah,  chuckin'  a  pork-pie  paper  an'  some 
orange  peel  into  the  middle  of  a  flower-bed,  "with  fire- 
works when  it  got  dark." 

I  plucked  up  me  dandy  then,  and  arsked  'er  if  she'd 
'ave  me  for  Adam  to  her  Eve,  an'  she  landed  me  one  on 
the  jaw  that  spoiled  my  chewin'  for  a  week,  'cos  I  tried 
to  get  a  kiss  orf  of  'er  mouth  that  was  as  red  as  sealin' 
wax. 

"Fair  trade  is  wot  I'm  after,"  I  says,  with  the  water 
runnin'  out  o'  my  eyes.  "Wot  I  want  is  to  take  you  for 


368  A  Sailor's  Home 

better  or  worse,"  an'  perish  me  pink!  if  she  didn't  hitch 
up  'er  lower  lip  an'  say  she  was  surprised  at  my  impu- 
dence, an'  wanted  to  know  wot  encouragement  she'd  ever 
give  me,  what  was  goin'  to  stand  up  under  the  canopy 
wiv  'er  father's  foreman,  Barney  Solomon,  in  a  fortnight 
from  that  day. 

After  that  we  did  the  gardens,  pourin'  into  tropical 
'ouses  full  of  horkids,  an'  temperate  'ouses  full  o'  ferns 
an'  Chrisanthums,  an'  intemperate  'ouses  full  o'  nothing 
to  speak  o',  but  the  'ole  show  run  orf  me  like  rain  down 
a  'carding.  All  I  wanted  was  to  git  into  me  own  pocket 
an'  'ide,  'cos  I'd  bin  made  such  a  blushin'  fool  of,  an' 
then  the  thought  o'  the  dollar  I'd  paid  for  Leah  an'  the 
drinks  I'd  stood  'er  got  into  my  blood  an'  made  me 
barmy.  When  we  come  pourin'  out  o'  the  Gardens  an' 
raged  into  the  place  where  we  was  to  'ave  our  blow-out, 
I  couldn't  do  no  proper  justice  to  the  biled  beef  with 
carrots  an'  dumplin's,  nor  the  raspberry  jam  roll.  My 
throat  pipe  seemed  too  narrer  for  anythink  but  beer,  and 
then  more  beer  an'  gin,  an'  stout,  an'  nips  o'  Scotch,  but 
beer  particularly.  I  played  the  goat  an'  found  myself 
singin'  songs.  Once  they  'ad  to  'aul  me  down  from  the 
table,  which  I'd  got  on  to  make  a  speech.  An'  twice 
they  took  me  outside  an'  sat  on  me,  but  I  come  back 
fresh  an'  more  fresh.  Leah  pretended  to  think  I  was 
'appy,  but  she  knoo  better,  an'  eight  or  nine  other  wim- 
min  was  as  fly  as  she  was.  "There's  more  fish  in  the 
sea,"  they  kep'  a  sayin',  an'  also  as  what  marriage  was 
a  lottery,  but  Emma  Barker,  what  was  a  red-'aired  cat 
with  green  eyes  an'  one  shoulder  'igher  than  the  other, 
she  kep'  close  beside  me  an'  'eld  my  'and  whenever  she 
could.  An'  she  kep'  a  whisperin'  to  me  as  how  Leah 
was  a  painted  bit  o'  rubbish  what  I  was  well  out  of 
takin'  up  wiv,  an'  as  wot  Barney  Solomon  'ud  be  sorry 
for  'isself  before  'e'd  bin  married  to  'er  for  a  week,  an' 
she  sang  "Lay  your  'ead  on  my  shoulder,  dear,  an'  sob 


The  Motor  'Bus  Beano  369 

your  grief  away,"  till  I  did,  an'  it  was  a  precious  bony 
one,  too.  'Strewth! 

Then  we  went  on  some  motor-car  roundabouts  wot 
they  'ad  on  the  green,  me  an'  Emma  side  by  side,  an*  I 
come  off,  an'  they  'ad  to  stop  the  machinery  to  get  at 
me,  an*  I  'ad  a  bit  of  a  mill  with  the  chap  what  fetched 
me  out.  My  lip  got  split  some'ow,  an'  the  bloke  what 
'ad  'eld  my  coat  made  orf  wiv  it,  an'  my  front  teeth 
being  loose  I  didn't  make  much  play  at  the  cold-meat  tea, 
but  Emma  stuck  to  me  like  wax  and  put  away  grub 
enough  for  the  two.  Alf  Emanuel  came  an'  arsked  me 
wot  I  meant  by  bein'  rude  to  'is  sister  Leah,  an'  when 
I  let  'im  know  wot  I  thought  of  'er  there  was  another 
mill,  me  showin'  science  an'  never  gettin'  home,  sweet 
home,  an'  Alf  playin'  dab,  but  touchin'  the  spot  till  the 
bell  rang  every  time,  though  'e  knoo  no  more  about 
fightin'  than  a  passover  kid. 

An'  it  got  dark  an'  the  stars  shone,  an*  we  piled  into 
the  old  Vanguard  to  come  'ome  to  Stratford  by  moon- 
light. The  driver  was  cryin'  drunk,  an'  the  waxworks 
conductor  sat  inside  with  one  arm  round  Leah  and  the 
other  round  another  gal,  an'  owned  that  'e  was  a  bache- 
lor after  all.  Emma  'eld  my  'and  tight,  that  is,  till  the 
engine  broke  down,  an*  the  driver  tried  to  look  inside 
the  petrol  tank  with  a  lighted  match  an'  dropped  it  in. 
Then  we  came  of  of  'er  an'  out  in  a  'urry,  and  there 
was  nothin'  to  do  after  that  but  stand  about  an'  see  the 
bonfire,  for  she  blazed  till  the  telephone  wires  crossin' 
'Ammersmith  Broadway  began  to  melt,  an'  though  three 
fire  engines  played  on  'er  at  once,  they  couldn't  git  the 
fire  under  till  there  wasn't  as  much  left  of  the  pore  old 
Vanguard  as  'ud  'ave  made  a  cookin'  range  or  a  perambu- 
lator. Then  come  the  cream  o'  the  holiday,  which  was 
walkin'  'ome  to  Stratford  without  a  coat  in  a  drizzle  o' 
rain  what  come  on  to  make  things  pleasanter,  an'  Emma 
'anging  to  my  arm,  as  'eavy  as  a  sack  o'  coals.  "Re- 


370  A  Sailor's  Home 

member,  you've  arsked  me  to  'ave  you,  George,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  put  the  banns  up,"  she  says  when  I  landed  'er 
at  'er  mother's.  It  cost  me  eighteen  an'  six  an'  a  new 
'at  to  git  another  gal  what  works  at  my  shop — Luce 
Rainey  'er  name  was — to  go  round  to  Emma's  mother's 
an'  say  as  wot  I  was  already  promised  in  marriage  to  'er, 
an'  then  the  donah  wanted  to  stick  to  me  after  me  payin' 
'er  to  get  me  out  of  Emma's  clutches. 

I've  never  bin  for  a  beano  in  a  motor  'bus  since  then. 
But  now  I've  'card  as  wot  Barney  'ud  give  anything  not 
to  be  married  to  Leah,  an'  as  wot  Leah  'ud  fair  kiss  the 
boots  of  any  bloke  wot  'ud  take  Barney  in  for  a  swim 
an'  sink  'im,  Fme  gettin'  more  reconciled.  See? 


A     000  042  1 77     6 


O  ,- 

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